


These Constant Stars Part II

by stylinsoncity



Series: guardian angels [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fashion Designer Louis, Fluff, Guitars, M/M, New York City, Punk Harry, Punk Rock, Rich Louis, Smut, University Student Harry, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinsoncity/pseuds/stylinsoncity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another story about punk rockers turned guardian angels. Retold by the punk rocker himself, who sometimes needs saving too.</p><p>Title inspired by "Fool's Gold" by One Direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Constant Stars Part II

**Author's Note:**

> It's more than just a retelling, I guess. It's Harry working out the complicated things Louis makes him feel. It's light shed on the five months they spend living apart. It's closure. It's so fluffy and self-indulgent I should be banned from this site.

Nick and Alfie and Cara are all three sheets to the wind and bursting with nonsense giggles, spilling over the couch and onto Nick’s hardwood floors. But Harry just sits there, curled into the armchair by the TV like a cat. He strums an idle tune on his guitar resting in his lap, while his friends cackle on about Miley Cyrus. 

Nick is now reenacting Miley’s VMA performance from last year and Alfie is rolling, quite literally rolling on the floor in absolute hysterics.

Harry chuckles a bit. Especially when Cara hops to her feet and takes on the role of Robin Thicke, and Nick attempts to twerk for her. It’s an absolute nightmare.

It’s also midnight and everyone except Harry is high. And even though he’s had three drinks so far, he isn’t drunk. He’s just tired.

“Hey,” he calls, unfolding his legs from the armchair. “Think I might head home.”

“Aw, Harry. Why?” Cara pouts. “It’s still so early.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m knackered.” He pushes himself up out of the armchair and wobbles to his feet like a baby giraffe. He has his guitar tucked away in its case before Nick realizes he’s actually leaving.

“Hey, go across the hall and ask James to drive you home,” Nick slurs.

Harry’s brows crease. “Why would I do that? I walked here just fine.”

“’Cause New York is a dangerous place, Harold. Shouldn’t be walking all alone in the dark of the night.”

“Someone might rob you for your hair,” Alfie supplies, prompting a snort from everyone except Harry. He needs to leave…like now.

“Where’s that bike you said you two were going to sell to me?” Harry questions.

Nick snaps his fingers. “Right, of _course_ ,” he croons to the room and then he disappears down the hall, long limbs flailing and a manic smirk on his face. He comes back seconds later with a vintage looking bike, with wheel guards and a little horn too. Harry is in love.

“How much do you want for it?”

Nick waves at the air like he means to give it to Harry for free. But they’re all broke university students and Harry doubts that is the case.

“I have 10 bucks in my pocket,” Harry says. “I can give you more later.”

Nick takes a sip of his cocktail. Again, they’re penniless students. Harry doesn’t know how his friends afford to drink cocktails at all. He’s content for his cheap beers and tap water. “Just give me the ten and we’ll call it a deal,” Nick says.

“You’re sure?” Harry asks.

Nick nods and holds up his right hand. “Scouts honor.”

Cara and Alfie crack up again, hooting and curling over each other. Harry shakes his head as he draws the cash out of his pocket.

“With that, I bid you all goodnight.”

He hears them calling after him, singing his name and mourning their loss. He shuffles into the hallway and shuts the rickety apartment door. There’s a window at the end of the hall that opens to the fire escape. He hears the busy honking of taxi cabs down below and New Yorkers making their way home.

Usually he would go out through that window because it’s faster and safer than taking the crappy lift. His only other option is the stairwell, which leads out to a back door and to a route that Harry doesn’t usually take. But he’ll have to tonight.

It’s with a lot of ruckus and dedication that he gets his bike down the six flights of stairs and onto the street. He adjusts his guitar case on his back and mounts the bike, way more excited than most people would be about having to pedal home. When he gets there, he’s going to polish this baby up and ride it everywhere.

Or well, maybe not the riding part. He gets about three blocks away from Nick’s when the front tire starts making an unhappy whistling sound and by the next block, Harry is forced to dismount. The tire stares back and him, flat, useless, and dejected.

He actually laughs, tilting his head back towards the moon. And then—more appropriately—he groans, dropping his face into his palm. He grabs the bike handles again, and starts his trek home on foot.

He probably should have seen this coming, right? 10 bucks for a bike reeks of crooked intent. Sure, Nick is a friend, but this is New York and everyone has had at least one lesson in being conned and conning others. It’s the bloody circle of life.

Anyway, this isn’t a problem a little air and a patch job won’t fix. And while he’s at it, he might as well give the bike a fresh coat of paint too.

He starts thinking of colors. Blue. Red. Black. Maybe even pink. He can’t make up his mind, still hasn’t made up his mind by the time he’s crossing to the next block.

He hears a sudden clatter against the pitch as he’s passing a slim alley. Or he thinks he does. He isn’t sure and at first, he doesn’t really care to be. He happens to glance in the direction of the sound anyway.

It’s a fleeting glance. Yet Harry makes out the form of someone lying near the skip. It’s most likely a homeless person, and in the light of day, he would dig around in his pocket for extra dollars to spare. But he knows better than to try that at night. Especially not in a dark alley.

Something about the person’s posture is wrong though. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking when he leans his bike up against the brick wall. He just knows that something feels wrong.

He glances around and takes three careful steps down the alley. He pulls out his phone and turns on his flashlight app. He doesn’t shine it directly at the person in case they’re merely asleep. He aims the beam against the brick walls.

He spots dark brown hair and what looks to be a black blazer, the latter of which is uncharacteristic of a homeless man’s wardrobe. He steps closer, closer still, until he’s about four feet away, his heart thudding in his ears. There’s a cell phone lying beside the person’s hand, which perhaps was the clatter Harry heard.

He’s certain he’s about to be ambushed. He might look rough on the edges. But it’s all a farce. The one bar fight Harry was involved in, he spent the majority of the time bandaging a stranger’s broken finger.

He doesn’t do violence. There’s never any point.

If this is the part where someone hops out from behind the skip and tries to knife him, well, Harry is quite fucked.

And then every thought and every fear in his head is sucked into a vortex and vanishes just like that. They’re gone the instant he sees blood. He stops thinking, drops to his knees beside the man, and removes his guitar case to set it beside him. He shines his flashlight downward again.

The light gray of the man’s shirt is soaked dark red. His eyelids twitch when the light meets them. But his mouth is lax and his skin is ghost pale…

And he is beautiful.

There is no time for the thought but it flashes in Harry’s head anyway. There’s something ethereal and transcendent about this man. A tragic beauty, Harry thinks. Whether it’s because he is gorgeous and lying here at death’s door, or because he is gorgeous and alone.

And why on earth would someone leave him alone?

“Hey,” Harry says, slapping his hand gently against the man’s cold cheek. “Can you hear me?”

His eyelids flutter. His face wrinkles in pain. Harry breathes a sigh of temporary relief. His fingers shake as he punches numbers quickly into his phone. He fucks up and dials 999. “Fuck.” He hangs up quick because he’s not in the fucking UK. He tries again, the phone rings, and a dispatcher clicks on right away.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Hello. I’m- there’s this man here. He’s bleeding really badly. He’s- we’re in an alley,” he starts to remember all those crime shows he’s watched with his step dad and racks his brain for details that might actually be useful. He tells the dispatcher where he thinks he is as clearly as he can.

“Please hurry,” he says finally.

He forgets that he’s not meant to move a person if they’re injured, especially when he doesn’t know how and could possibly be jostling a bullet around or dislodging a knife. He contemplates finding the source of the injury but he isn’t a nurse. And he isn’t going to pretend any different.

He hooks his arm gently under the man’s shoulders and starts to lift him. When he hears him make a muffled whine, he stills. He exhales a steady breath.  “I just want to get you closer to the street, so they’ll find us when they get here. I won't drop you, I promise.”

He crouches down and pushes his arms beneath the man’s body, ignoring the sticky dampness of his shirt. The man’s eyes flutter for a moment, before rolling closed. Harry lifts him against his chest and braces himself before standing to his feet.

He wobbles a little. He’s got some muscle definition from occupying the school’s gym every now and then, or doing a few push-ups in his room. And this man isn’t particularly large at all. But he’s essentially dead weight and Harry is in way over his head. He starts carefully toward the opening of the alley, stumbling forward and forward. He lets himself sink back to the ground once he’s made it there. Far enough, he thinks.

He’s out of breath and his left arm which was tucked beneath the man’s body is covered in blood. Harry’s eyes burn because he doesn’t hear sirens and because there’s a strong chance this stranger will die in his arms.

“Hey,” he says again and his voice cracks. He just thinks it might be good to keep talking. “Please open your eyes. I need you to stay awake, okay?”

He doesn’t think he is awake at all anymore. But in the event that he is and that he can still hear him, he begs him.

“You have to stay awake.”

He grips the man’s hand in his own and faintly, very faintly in the distance, he hears the whirling of sirens and hopes they are headed his way. He squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“My name is Harry,” he tells him.

It seems like a stupid thing to say. But maybe Harry is the last person on earth that this man will ever hear from. And at the very least, he should know his name.

His vision blurs suddenly. He sees teardrops land on the man’s dirtied blazer and he drags his forearm across his eyes and sucks in a deep breath.

“You’re okay now,” he says, not quite believing himself, praying anyway that it is true.

He exhales another shaking breath. “You’re going to be okay.”

 

* * *

 

From the look on Zayn’s face, it’s clear that Harry has overstayed his welcome.

At first when they exchange introductions, Zayn couldn’t be happier to see him. Because Harry is the one who saved his best mate’s life after all. Zayn thanks him profusely and even chats with him for a bit while they’re seated near Louis’ hospital bed. He’s the one who tells Harry Louis’ name too. Because earlier, when some of the nurses figured out that Harry lied about being Louis’ brother, they were reluctant to give him any further information.

But it seems the longer Harry hangs around, the more suspicious Zayn gets. And Harry doesn’t even blame him. He doesn’t know what he’s still doing here either.

He just… _can’t_ leave. Not yet. At first, he figured that once Louis woke up, he would say his goodbyes and continue on his way.

But then Louis woke up and turned out to be…pretty cool.

He likes pizza. And the Ramones. And has a special affinity for European football, though he listens when Harry explains American football to him. He’s from Doncaster, as is evident in the thickness of his accent when he gets especially excited about something, like the aforementioned topics.

He starts wearing his glasses because the contacts are too troublesome for him when he’s stuck in a hospital bed. And Harry likes the way he looks with them on. Harry likes the way he looks in general.

He keeps telling himself that he will leave. After the detective stops by, after Zayn gets back from dinner, after he drops Louis’ mum off from the airport, or after he brings Louis breakfast…again. And in every instance, Harry comes back.

He comes back and writes his poems and his six-page paper in the seat by the window. He comes back to fluff Louis’ pillows and bring him scones from Pret and pizza and burgers from White Castle. He comes back just to listen to him talk.

He might have a very small, very minor crush on him. But it’s not about that. Louis really is just a great person to sit and admire, to talk with and laugh with, and Harry tries so hard to leave but never does.

 

* * *

 

The day he receives Louis’ flowers starts off especially horrid.

He rides his bike to campus and forgets to put on deodorant beforehand. So the sun does a good job of ensuring that he is soaked down in sweat and reeking by the time he gets to class.

People already have a bad enough impression of him with the piercings and tattoos and such. It's not like they need more reasons to avoid him.

He likes his piercings. All of them. And he doesn't care what people think so long as he's happy with them. If it were any different, he wouldn’t have so many.

But he's also trying to do a service to society by deconstructing the harmful ideologies behind piercings and tattoos. Like the belief that people with body modifications have a disposition towards uncleanliness. It's quite the opposite in fact. The very act of piercing or tattooing requires adequate and religious upkeep. But that's a conversation for another time.

The point is that he doesn’t want to further the stereotype by stinking up the entire fucking room.

He prays that class will go by quickly, which of course means that it does the opposite. During the bottom half of Composition, Professor Abernathy asks him to recite the first movement of Bach’s Sonata No. 3. (He’s been unashamedly singling Harry out since that sticky note in the spring. Which Harry maybe deserves for being a tease.)

He has no choice but to stand before his classmates, smelling like he hasn’t showered in years, to play his best recitation. And all to be told in the end by Abernathy that he was flat and needs to come in for supplemental practice before next weeks' recital.

Harry has never been happier to leave campus.

"Hey, Haz," Niall calls to him.

"Hey," Harry doesn't give him a chance to strike up a conversation. He heads right into the shower and stays in there for almost an hour until he's pruney and pink. He crawls naked into his bed immediately afterwards and falls asleep. It’s only four in the afternoon. But he was up late last night finishing yet another paper. He thinks he deserves the extra rest.

He's woken an hour later by the smell of Niall making burgers and shuffles out to the kitchen with a rumbling stomach.

A large bouquet is sitting on the countertop, looking out of place in their shabby flat.

"Whose flowers?" he asks.

Niall plucks one earphone from his ear. "What?"

"Flowers. Whose are they?" Harry repeats, pointing at the vase, before pulling the fridge door open.

"Oh,” Niall says. Harry extracts a beer bottle and knocks the top off against the edge of the counter. “They’re yours."

He turns away from the fridge, beer bottle frozen at his lips. "What?"

"Yeah. I tried to tell you when you came in. There’s a box of gourmet chocolates there too. From _Louis_. Who's Louis?"

Harry throws the fridge door closed and drops his beer bottle on the countertop and scrambles for the flowers. A white notecard is tied to the ribbon around the vase. Harry plucks it free and reads.

**Thank you again for everything.**

**If you ever need a friend, you know where to find me.**

**\- Louis Tomlinson**

Louis’ signature is ornate and perfect for Harry to trace with his thumb. The message itself isn’t especially monumental but Harry reads it again anyway. He slips the notecard into his back pocket and lifts the bouquet, and tucks the box of chocolates under his arm.

“So who’s Louis?” Niall asks again while Harry buries his nose in the center of one yellow rose and then shifts to one white peony.

“I told you about him,” Harry mumbles. “Last week, I told you I was looking after a friend who’d been attacked.”

“If he’s a friend, how come I’ve never heard of him before?”

“You don’t know all of my friends, Niall,” Harry says and throws him a canning look, but there’s not much potency to it. He feels like he’s full of champagne bubbles. And butterflies. And yes, it feels weird and he wants it to stop.

“You’re blushing,” Niall says.

“Am not,” Harry sings and turns away, face still pressed into his flowers. He shuffles back and takes the plate with a burger Niall has set out for him. “Cheers.”

While he’s standing in his room, munching on his burger, he realizes there isn't an adequate place to set the flowers down.

He’s finally forced to clean like he’s been wanting to for weeks. With school and work and then recently Louis, he couldn't find the chance to tackle his dirty laundry and such.

He throws every article of clothing littering the room into his laundry basket and gets out the hoover. He changes his sheets and polishes his bookshelf and his bedside table and his desk.

And only then does he set the flowers down on his windowsill.

Harry snaps at least ten pictures from different angles and sends them to his sister and his mum. He contemplates posting one to Instagram but he thinks the people who follow him for The Blessed Unrest would be confused. Punk rockers posting bouquets ruins the aesthetic, doesn’t it?

 **Glad you like them,** Louis sends back while Harry is reclined in his bed, fine-tuning the chords for a new song, gaze sliding constantly to his flowers.

He wants to send Louis another message. He wants to tell him that no one’s ever sent him flowers before. That the men he’s dated take one look at him and never stop to think that Harry might _want_ flowers.

But his heart feels funny. It feels heavy and clouted. And when he glances in the mirror across the room, he finds that Niall is right. He is blushing and most likely hasn’t stopped since he first set eyes on Louis’ signature.

It’s stupid though, obviously. He isn’t entirely sure what Louis does for a living, but it’s clear he’s doing it well. He’s filthy rich and posh and proper, and Harry is none of those things. When mums pass him by, they clutch their children’s hands a little tighter in fear, and no one in the working world will ever actually take him seriously.

Louis included.

It’s _never_ going to happen. But that’s not the end of the world.

He pulls his eyes away from the flowers, huffs a sad little laugh, and starts strumming once more.

 

* * *

 

A week and a few days pass. He doesn’t hear from Louis aside from his thanks after sending him a recipe that’s meant to aide his recovery. It contains beets, which, Harry read, help restore blood cells.

The kid who lives in the apartment next door named Sam finally asks for Harry’s number, albeit under the guise of needing help with his Calculus homework. Harry doesn’t actually know much about Calculus. But he thinks Sam knows that. He wouldn’t mind going for drinks with him some time.

Hours don’t go by without him thinking of Louis. But the infatuation Harry has for him begins to ebb like he wants it to.

Then on Sunday night, he has a nightmare.

About Louis.

It's grainy and unclear and by morning, he will forget the majority of it. But the important parts, the ones that keep him up long after it's over--he never forgets those.

Somehow they are together. In the same bed, and Louis' arm is snug around his waist. And for just one second, Harry feels better than he's probably ever felt.

And then he sees the blood. Soaking down his mattress and a panicked search reveals its source to be the leaking wound in Louis' side.

The arm around Harry is cold and limp. The warmth he has come to appreciate is gone. And it is with a sinking, blinding comprehension that he realizes Louis is too. Gone. Dead. However he puts it, it’s his worst nightmare yet.

He messes up on his chords during Composition later that morning. His bow slips and he never regains a steady hand. His classmates eye him warily because usually Harry doesn’t mess up at all.

The problem all along has been that his head and his heart aren’t agreeing with one another. While the better half of his brain says to give Louis space, the other half is ruled by his rebel heart. It wrangles him into pulling out his phone once he’s left class and asking Louis outright if it’s okay to see him again.

He tells himself this is okay. At the very least he will see that Louis is fine and he will stop worrying about him. And then this time for sure, he will leave Louis alone.

When they meet, he doesn’t expect to see the bags beneath Louis’ eyes or the weariness hidden behind his every expression. He knows right away that something is wrong. And then, he thinks, he wants to help.

 

* * *

 

Ever since seeing Louis on TV, Harry hasn't stopped watching YouTube videos of him, cataloging for himself the entirety of Louis' dazzling and ever-growing career. There are videos of him in Paris and Milan, at this award show and that award show. At this fashion show and that one.

There’s an almost hour-long video about Burberry at the British Fashion Awards, which Harry isn't familiar with but he sees Sir Elton John there and figures it's a pretty big deal.

On camera, the interviewer pays Louis a well-deserved compliment on his attire and Louis does that wiry smirk of his followed by a lick of his lips and Harry sinks further into his mattress, rewinds, and watches it again.

Later in the video, Louis is walking down the red carpet with a man beside him, a model by the looks of it, dressed elegantly in a shimmery black top and fitted trousers. Louis has his hand on his waist and poses with him for every picture.

Harry imagines himself there instead. It’s a bit comical with his ripped jeans and his piercings and enough ink to rewrite every line of every play Shakespeare has ever penned. Louis wouldn't be caught dead with him. No pun intended. Just the truth.

Harry pictures himself there anyway.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe we could go over it one more time?” Harry turns to his band mates, still clutching the mic.

Niall and Lou exchange a look.

“What?” Harry huffs, out of breath from just singing his head off.

Lou shrugs, leaning forward against her tom-tom drums. “We just went over the whole set like ten times.”

“I know…” Harry says. “But like…we want it to be perfect, right?”

Lou glances at Niall and breathes a laugh. “Harry. We mess up at least once every show. I forget the proper beat. Niall plays the wrong riff. And you muck up the lyrics. It’s what we do. Why the fuss now?”

“You _know_ why,” Niall says, dragging his fingers down his fret board.

Harry looks back and forth between Lou and Niall. “Hey,” he says and repeats more adamantly. “Hey. We can’t have discord amongst the band. We have to be united.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Then let’s agree that we’re good on practice. The music is good. And Louis is going to appreciate it just as much as you want him to.”

Louise starts grinning. And Harry looks away because he knows the blood is starting to travel to his cheeks and his ears. “Whatever,” he says.

“Aw, come on, Haz,” Niall laughs.

Harry holds out two middle fingers and gives them a graceful bow. “See you tomorrow.”

They laugh and laugh while he packs up his guitar and slings it over his shoulder.

“So excited to meet your boyfriend,” Louise calls after him as he wanders out of the bar where they hold rehearsals. He doesn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing that he’s flustered.

He doesn’t mind being the butt of jokes. Sometimes he makes a joke of himself for that very reason. He likes to keep people laughing even if it’s at his own expense.

But maybe this hits a little too close to home. Too close to heart, really.

 

* * *

 

Speaking of his heart…

It is about two seconds away from bursting out of his chest and pleading mercy. Because Louis is about to kiss him. His hand is sliding into Harry’s hair, his eyes are on Harry’s mouth, and he. Is about. To kiss him.

Harry brought this on himself with offering Louis his place to spend the night, with pulling out the weed. But in his defense, he didn’t think any of it would work. He just wanted Louis to stay for a little longer. That was all.

They’d been particularly touchy all night, and Louis hadn’t taken his hand off Harry’s hip once. And yes, Harry purposefully brushed his mouth over the shell of Louis’ ear when he whispered to him. And _yes_ , he shuffled a bit further into his arm.

But this is Louis. This is the person Harry has been pining after for what feels like forever. The person on whom he never would have expected his piss-poor seduction tactics to take effect.

And then Louis kisses him. And as it turns out, he does it exactly the way Harry wants to be kissed. Slowly and gently, mindful of his lip ring. He licks artfully into his mouth and Harry moans and sways closer.

He doesn’t have room to be embarrassed. He wants Louis everywhere, on every part of him. He wants to be pressed into the couch and taken apart. He is so hungry for it, he doesn’t hesitate to offer up permission.

“Whatever you want,” he tells him. And Louis does just that. He takes him into his mouth like he’s been starving for this too. And Harry can’t believe that. Harry can’t believe Louis might want him just as badly as he wants Louis.

He stops thinking when Louis swallows around him. He just lets himself go. Tomorrow he will worry about the implications of their actions. Tomorrow he will apologize for seducing him with his weed and taking advantage of his insomnia to rope him into staying here.

But right now Harry lets himself have this one thing, this one perfect thing that Louis gives him freely. Just this and nothing more.

 

* * *

 

He believes he can handle any situation so long as he understands the part he’s meant to play. And he can play any game once he's made aware of the rules. And like most people, he likes a challenge. They keep him on his toes.

But this… _thing_ with Louis is of a new caliber. Harry doesn’t know how he’s meant to navigate this board. And he doesn’t much like the game at all.

They have this talk, him and Louis. At lunch the day after. And when it’s over, Harry leaves with hopes that things will improve. He expects that maybe now they’ll go on an actual date or maybe Louis will kiss him again and tell him he wants to be with him. Because Kevin, or whoever, is out of the picture. And Louis isn’t going anywhere. He said as much.

Maybe Harry actually has a chance to make something of this, something that's more than a one night stand, something that lasts. He wants that. Instead, he gets this…

They make pizza on Monday and hover in the kitchen while it bakes. Louis hip checks him when he hands him a beer. And tosses Harry's curls when Harry leans over to check on the pizza. And pokes him in the side while they're sitting on the couch. He sifts his fingers through Harry’s hair when his head ends up in Louis’ lap.

Every touch is welcome and appreciated.

And then, confusing.

Because there's this moment when they're sitting there after Harry plays a bit of violin. Louis calls him the most beautiful man he’s ever seen and looks at him like it’s true. He looks at him the only way Harry wants to be looked at for the rest of his life. And every breath they take from that second on feels monumental. Harry _swears_ Louis will kiss him. And Harry _wants_ to be kissed.

And Louis doesn't do it.

Because he doesn't want to maybe. Because he'd rather have ice cream. Whatever. The point is that he _doesn't do it_. And it's like a knife to the gut.

Or…well, maybe that isn't the best analogy. _Yikes_.

But the point stands.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday comes. And night falls.

Harry reclines on Louis’ couch, sorting through his sheet music for class. On the TV beside him, an episode of Golden Girls is just finishing up. He has considered leaving at least fifty times, has watched through one and a half episodes of the show, and has even packed up his rucksack. But he can’t convince himself to do it. At least not while Louis is in the shower. That just seems rude.

He lifts the remainder of his Sweet Dreams smoothie and slurps the glass empty. In the kitchen, the dishwasher hums with all the blender parts and the dishes from the spaghetti Louis threw together. Harry glances at the time on his phone. He really should just leave.

Then Louis saunters out of his bedroom. Without a shirt on. His hair is still a little damp but drying quickly. He goes into the kitchen, and fills a glass of water at the sink. He adjusts his glasses and looks across the room. Harry drops his gaze.

“Will you stay again tonight?”

Harry lowers the papers in his hands and lifts his gaze. For a moment, they just look at each other. “Should I?” Harry asks.

“You should,” Louis replies, strolling closer. He doesn’t have a shirt on. He sits down on the edge of the couch, shirtless, without a shirt on, and no shirt. “Only if you want to. I like having you here.”

Harry licks at his lip ring. A nervous habit. “I’ll stay if you want me to stay.”

“I want you to stay,” Louis says immediately.

Perhaps the most infuriating thing about Louis is how he makes Harry feel wanted. Just not in the way Harry is looking for. Not anymore. He doesn’t want to just be here to help Louis feel better. He wants to be here all the time. He wants to be here for everything.

He returns his gaze to his papers. “Then I’m staying,” he says. “You have a spare room, right? Or I could just take the couch.”

“That isn’t good for your back,” Louis says.

Harry just looks at him. He didn’t even think Louis was listening when he mentioned that his back acts up sometimes. That was a while ago.

“I do have a spare room,” Louis goes on. “But I also have a perfectly good bed in my room. A king sized bed.”

Harry taps his pen on the edge of his papers and thinks about it for so long Louis appears to fidget.

“Just sleep in the bed with me, Harry. It’s not a big deal…”

On the contrary, it’s a very big deal. “Alright,” Harry says anyway.

Louis reaches for the remote control and cuts the TV off. He stands. “Come on,” he nudges Harry’s thigh with his knee.

“You have to put a shirt on though,” Harry says. “If we’re sleeping in the same bed.”

Louis’ brows shoot up. “Does this _bother_ you?”

“Yes,” Harry tells him straight. He places his sheet music on the coffee table and gets to his feet.

Louis laughs. “Whatever the Queen commands.”

Harry narrows his eyes, his lips curving with a smirk against his will. They’re just stood in front of each other, Louis a full head shorter but still managing to control his space and Harry’s too.

Harry’s eyes sweep down over his chest. He has half a mind to push him back into the couch and mount his hips and be done with it. It would be easy.

He doesn't really know what he wants anymore. Just that anything would be better than constant blue balls and this desperate yearning that grows like a fever in his chest.

He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anyone or anything as much as he wants Louis. Perhaps not even his Les Paul.

He wants to kiss for hours on the couch and hold hands and have really great sex with Louis. He wants Louis to meet his mum and his sister. He wants to go to concerts with Louis and take trips with Louis. He wants to be in love and wants being in love to feel okay, not terrifying like it seems now.

Louis’ gaze bounces over his face. “What’s the matter?”

He wants for Louis to just know. He doesn’t want to have to say it. Because what if he’s wrong about them. What if Louis doesn’t want the same thing at all? And Harry says it and ruins everything?

He shakes his head. “Just tired.”

He wants to just go to sleep. Perhaps that is best for everyone.

“To bed then?” Louis asks, still watching him carefully.

“Yes,” Harry says and starts to turn away. “Put on a shirt.”

It still feels tense being in his room even after Louis does. The bed is large but they occupy the center like there isn’t enough room, face to face.

“Thanks for staying,” Louis tells him.

Harry smiles, a tiny smile though it may be. “Whatever helps.”

“You help a lot,” Louis murmurs. His hand comes to rest on Harry’s waist. For no reason other than to confuse Harry further.

Harry attempts to swallow the lump in his throat but it stays lodged. “Good. Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“I will. In fact, you know…” Louis begins, shutting his eyes momentarily like he’s fallen asleep. Harry waits. Louis murmurs on, “I love the sound of your voice.” His eyes open. “Have I told you that? Not just when you’re singing. When you’re just speaking too.”

Harry’s stomach takes a wild dive. He squeezes his eyes shut and groans, “Louis…”

“I mean it,” Louis says. His Adam’s apple bobs. His eyes flitter over Harry’s mouth. “Just letting you know what helps. Because you asked. It helps just to hear you talk.”

“Half the time I don’t even know what I’m saying,” Harry grumbles.

Louis smiles. “Even then.”

“What’s got you so sentimental?” Harry asks. Deflection is good. Deflection is safe.

Louis’ hand slides to his hip, and then to the small of his back as he shuffles closer.

“I just want you to know…” he shrugs. “How important you are to me. That’s all. And you help more than I can explain.”

“You’re important to me too,” Harry replies.

Louis grins. “See, a bit of sentiment goes a long way.”

Harry looks again at his lips. Does he have to ask? Is that the trick? Does he have to ask outright to be kissed? Or should he just do it? Should he just maybe shuffle forward a little and just—

“Good night, Harry,” Louis says quietly. His eyes have started to slip closed again.

Harry blinks himself out of his stupor. “Good night…”

He turns over onto his other side, wondering briefly if this is what hell is like—constantly being brought to the brink and then snatched away, over and over again.

Louis doesn’t remove his hand from his waist. Harry hesitates a moment before he rests his arm over Louis’. Louis responds by threading their fingers together.

None of it makes sense at all. It’s just not logic.

“Stick around in the morning. I’ll make breakfast.”

Harry exhales. “I have to leave at six for work. You’ll have to get up too early.”

“I don’t mind. I can get out of bed a bit earlier to make you breakfast.”

Harry’s throat feels like a rubber band pulled tight. And he knows why. There are too many words he isn’t saying. Too many questions he hasn’t asked. “Why would you do that?”

He thinks he feels Louis shrug. “I do nice things for people I like.”

Harry can’t think of an adequate response to that. He snuggles a bit further into Louis’ warmth. “Good night, Louis,” he says again.

Louis doesn’t release his hand. “Good night, love.”

 

* * *

 

It’s Thursday.

Harry finishes dragging his brush down his thumb nail, a streak of black left in its wake, and inspects his work. He happens a glance across the couch and finds Louis’ eyes on him.

He starts blowing on his nail. “What?”

Louis’ smile is small. “I’ve told you about my doctor a few times, haven’t I? Dr. Marin?”

His therapist, he means—the woman Harry has never seen but pictures as a kind of superhero with the way Louis has spoken of her. It’s easy to tell when Louis likes a person. He carries his affection plainly in his voice.

Harry wonders how Louis speaks about him.

But that’s rather off topic, isn’t it?

“You have, yeah,” Harry says. “Why?”

Louis shrugs, hesitates. “She wants- she’s been encouraging me to like…go back…you know, to the alley.”

Harry focuses his gaze on him completely, turning his body to face him fully.

“I’ve told her no every time she’s suggested it. I don’t really think- I haven’t thought it was necessary. Or possible, even.”

“It is. If you decide you want to. It’s absolutely possible,” Harry assures him.

Louis smiles, brighter this time, the way Harry likes most. “She suggested that I ask you to come with me. But I know the whole thing might be traumatic for you too. So don’t feel you have to say ‘yes.’ I just thought I should—”

“Of course,” Harry says. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m there.”

No other response makes sense. Harry would sooner walk through fire for Louis than leave him to do it alone.

He is rewarded with a kiss to his forehead, Louis’ hand cool on the back of his neck. Harry doesn’t make eye contact afterwards but he doesn’t think Louis needs to meet his eyes to see how happy it makes him.

“Thank you,” Louis says, his voice devastatingly warm, then hot when it settles beneath Harry’s skin.

“I have one more favor to ask you,” he says after a minute, lowering his iPad to his lap.

Harry’s brush stills again.

Louis holds out his one hand and makes a show of studying his nails. “Think I’m going to need a manicure of my own soon.”

Harry sputters a laugh. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?” Louis says, shrugging, lifting his brows. Harry adores him. “Just- maybe not right now. I have a meeting in the morning. Tomorrow, though. You’ll be here tomorrow, yeah?”

Aside from work and class and that one measly hour of band rehearsal on Tuesday, Harry has been setting most of his time aside for Louis. So, yes.

“Yes,” Harry says.

Louis smiles. “Then pencil me in.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow it isn’t not until Harry hears the words “I’m in love with you” that everything clicks and falls into place. They are the key to the room where he’s been storing his most precious secret.

When Louis says it, the door falls open. And everything in the world is right and perfect. Every star is steady in the sky. And everyone’s favorite song is on repeat. And guitar strings don’t break. And notes are never off key.

And maybe all of those things are just fantasy. But _this_ isn’t:

Harry is in love, is loved, and Louis is his.

 

* * *

 

The maestro raises his baton, his hand lifting, chin lifting.

Harry glances again at the empty seat with its “Reserved” sticker, stark white and painfully neglected. He sets his eyes to center again and with a flick of the maestro’s wand, he drags his bow across the strings.

It’s a small feat keeping his eyes either on the maestro or on his sheet music, and not on the seat where he expects Louis to show up any minute.

It's around the fourth song that Harry starts to realize Louis might not be coming at all. He remains in denial through the fifth song and the start of the sixth. Eventually there are two songs left, the seat is still empty, and Harry is sufficiently worried.

It's a miracle he makes it through his solo. His bow remains steady and he plays each note just the way he is meant to. But if it lacks passion, it is no wonder why. He plays through to the end and with a little bow of his head, takes his seat again.

He can't focus at the end when he and the other 29 students he’s been playing with all summer stand and take a unanimous bow.

He is the first one shuffling back stage when it’s over.

He digs around in his rucksack, receipts and Chapstick and his wallet falling out before he finds his phone.

There are two texts from his mum wishing him good luck and letting him know she's watching the recital via NYU’s live stream.

The next two messages are from Louis.

**I'm still coming I promise.**

**Just wait for me.**

Both messages are from an hour ago. He doesn’t get the chance to reply because a call comes through from his mum. She blows lots of kisses through the receiver and tells him what a good job he did and how proud she is.

Afterwards, he repacks his things and tucks his violin in his case. He removes his concert blazer and replaces it in a garment bag and shuffles out to the auditorium.

“There he is,” Nick claps his hands together, big grin on his face. Niall’s with him. They make an odd pair standing beside each other. Niall with his copious tattoos and spikey hair, and Nick with his posh clothes and religiously pampered skin.

Harry exchanges hugs with them both. “Thanks for coming.”

“Lou couldn’t make it ‘cause of the baby,” Niall explains.

Well, at least Lou has an excuse. Meanwhile, Harry has officially been with the man of his dreams for four weeks and that man is nowhere to be found.

“Anyway…” Nick says. “I've been looking forward to finally having drinks with this allusive Louis person.”

Niall snorts. “That's because you’re obsessed with whatever clothing line it is he works for,” he says. He whispers to Harry. “Don't let him near your boyfriend, Haz. He's trying to like rob him of his clothes, I swear.”

Harry laughs, his anxiety ebbing some.

“Do you think we could take a rain check on drinks?” he says, wincing. “Louis actually isn't here. Something came up, so…”

Niall and Nick frown. “Well, let's go out anyway. Just us three!” Nick says, still eager to get his hands on alcohol if and when he can.

Harry smiles. “That's alright. I'm still seeing him tonight, I think. Promise I'll let you know when drinks are a go.”

Nick gives him a narrowed-eyed look. “You'd better.”

“He's gonna steal his shoes, mate,” Niall warns him again.

Laughing still, Harry hugs them both once more and watches them leave, faintly disappointed about not showing Louis off tonight like he planned. He tugs his phone from his pocket. No new messages.

**Maybe call so I know you're alright?**

He waits for a reply.

**_Sorry_ **

Harry’s brows crease.

**Okay?**

He receives no response. He starts to wander around the auditorium to say goodbye to a few classmates and wish them a good rest of their summer.

He's in the middle of chatting with a girl named Karen who loaned him sheet music more than once over the past semester when someone calls to him.

There's a second of hopeless desire that has him thinking it’s Louis, although it doesn’t sound like him at all. And of course, it isn't him standing there. Harry smiles. “Professor.”

Karen leaves with another wave.

“You did a beautiful job tonight,” Professor Abernathy says. “It was a really excellent performance. And you looked great.”

Harry grins bashfully, “Thank you.”

Abernathy wanders a bit closer, arms crossed over his chest. “I'm guessing you have big plans tonight?”

Harry’s responding laugh is just a tad bitter. “Actually, no, not really. I’m not sure.”

“As popular as you are?”

Harry snorts and waves off the idea like a fly. “I’m really not—”

“Everyone in my class adored you.”

Harry will just have to take his word for it, he supposes. “Good to know then. Thank you.”

Abernathy smiles, a beat passes, and he scratches his graying beard. “So. I’m glad I caught you before you left. Because I wanted to say, of course, that it’s been a pleasure having you as a student,” he says. “But also. I do hope that this semester hasn’t been too…bizarre for you after…how things were during the spring.”

 _Wow_ , Harry thinks.

Here's the funny thing. Harry has spent the entire summer semester waiting for this conversation, waiting to be pulled aside and given the firm talking to he deserved about the level of appropriateness between professors and their students.

Yet the summer passed without as much as a peep from this man. And _now_ , just when Harry thought he was in the clear, the consequences come ‘round to bite him in the ass.

Harry squeezes his eyelids and exhales a big puff of air. “I’m so sorry about that whole thing, about the note,” he drops his voice to a low rumble as he speaks. “And just for how inappropriate that all was. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

Abernathy laughs. “Probably the same thing I was thinking.”

Okay, what? Harry’s brows crease deeply, his next words fall into silence.

“I didn’t bring it up to make you feel sorry. I’m bringing it up because you aren’t my student anymore. And I still have your number. And I’d still like to get drinks if you would.”

Harry’s mouth parts, his brows lift. He scrambles for a moment to gather his thoughts and then another longer moment for something to say. “I’m guessing you don’t mean to celebrate a successful semester?”

Abernathy smiles warmly. “I think you’re perhaps the best student I’ve ever had. And an inspiration to everyone in class and me as well. I’d like nothing more than to celebrate the past semester with you. But,” he shrugs. “I think we both know this isn’t really about that.”

Harry smiles in fleeting amusement. “I think I do, yes.”

“No harm in seeing how it goes, right?”

“If you’d asked me during the spring, I would have said no,” Harry says. “But. I have a boyfriend now actually.”

Abernathy instantly looks defeated. He manages to maintain his smile but it’s noticeably smaller. Harry almost feels guilty. “Is he supportive of your music?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Harry says confidently. He recounts in his head the many times Louis has told him how beautifully he plays. The times he has listened to Harry sing and strum his guitar while he dozes on the couch beside him. Just the thought makes Harry feel like he’s elevated a few inches off the ground.

“And where is he?”

Professor Abernathy has an easy unwavering confidence about him that Harry found incredibly attractive when he first met him. Even now he finds it attractive. He knows the man is prone to brutal honesty and harsh criticism but this he says without any ill-intent. It's just an honest question.

Harry shrugs, gives him an honest answer, “I don’t know. But he would be here if he could be.”

“I believe that you believe that… I don’t mean to sound condescending,” Abernathy replies. “But we might be a great team, Harry—you and me. I think you need someone who will be there to wholeheartedly support your work, who knows how brilliant you are and knows you’re meant for a fantastic career.”

Harry is momentarily speechless. His face must be pinkish under the soft glow of the recessed spotlights. He laughs and sighs at the same time, extremely flattered…

But also very much in love with Louis Tomlinson.

“I have that person already,” he tells him, smiling now because he knows it’s true. Even if Louis isn’t here. “Thank you. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Abernathy nods and sighs heavily. “You have my number if you change your mind.”

“I’m certain that I won’t,” Harry says. He holds out his hand for one last parting shake. Abernathy’s hand meets his. “Thank you for everything. You’re one of the best professors I’ve had here.”

“Then don’t forget me when you’re playing for the folks on top.”

Harry laughs. “I won’t, I promise.”

Abernathy takes one last steady look of him. And then another professor is calling him over and another student is calling to Harry. And they both step away.

A while later, sitting on the stone steps of Steinhardt, his only regret is that he didn’t take Niall and Nick up on that offer for drinks. An hour has passed since the end of the recital and the building is closed. There are a little over thirty minutes left till midnight and Harry is beyond tired.

He’s received two more messages from Louis.

At 10:47: **Leaving now.**

At 11:15: **Almost there.**

Harry props his knees up on the step and folds his arms overtop of them and rests his head down. He knows it isn’t safe for him to fall asleep here. But he shuts his eyes anyway. Just for a moment.

“Harry.”

He blinks and lifts his head, feeling as though mere seconds have passed but knowing that can’t be true. Because Louis is suddenly standing there in front of him, his silver Audi thrown precariously into a parking space on the kerb.

At first, when Harry was sitting there waiting on the steps, and earlier while he was watching all his classmates receive flowers and kisses from their partners, Harry almost felt angry with Louis. He felt like he’d been cheated out of a very important experience. And maybe like Louis just didn’t care enough to be here and share it with him. The entire recital felt ruined without him.

And now Harry looks at him and all he can do is smile. “Hi,” he says softly, so happy, abundantly happy just to have him here.

“I’m so sorry…” Louis says, exhaling a big breath of air. He looks at Harry imploringly. “Aiyana’s flight was delayed. And then her fitting was a disaster. Everything was a disaster. My phone died while I was trying to make it back across the city. And I'm just—I'm so sorry.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s okay. I'm just glad you're alright. I’m glad you’re here.”

Louis just stands there, hands propped on his hips. “You deserve much better.”

Harry’s stomach rolls, his memory of Abernathy’s words hours earlier triggered and rushing through his head. “No. Hey, I said it’s okay. I mean it.”

“You’ve been just sitting out here in the dark. You were starting to sleep even,” Louis goes on fussing. “You could have been— this is dangerous. Why didn’t you go home?”

“You told me to wait for you.”

“I wouldn’t have if I knew you’d be waiting outside. If I knew there wasn’t anyone else here. You should have left.”

“But I didn’t,” Harry says, just this side of annoyed. “If I left, I wouldn’t have seen you at all tonight. And it’s not like we have much time left together.”

Louis looks suddenly stricken, his jaw clenched tight, his nostrils flaring momentarily. “I should have been here, I’m sorry. You deserve better, Harry.”

“Why do you keep saying that? I have you. It doesn’t get any better than that.”

Louis laughs bitterly. “Well then that’s discouraging.”

“What are you doing, Louis?” Harry snaps. “If you feel sorry about not being here, the proper way to make up for it isn’t by making me feel worse—”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Harry says. “I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. And I don’t want anyone but you. Don’t try to make me second guess loving you because it won’t happen. Don’t try to make me feel sorry about being with you. I’m not.”

Also he got his ear pierced recently for this man. And Louis has a still-peeling tattoo to compliment Harry's moth on his chest— _it is what it is_ in perfect cursive. Those aren't things that can be easily undone and he's fucking glad for that. He's in this thing with Louis now and he’s here to stay.

He stands to his feet, slinging his violin case over his shoulder. He takes the last two steps to the pavement and closes the distance between them and pushes Louis back against his car. And he kisses him.

Louis’ arms go around his waist immediately.

“Take it back,” Harry tells him.

Louis’ brows furrow. “What?”

“That shit about me deserving better. Take it back.”

Louis drops his forehead to Harry's chest for a moment. His hands tighten on Harry’s waist. “I take it back,” he says, earning another searing kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says after they break away. “I just wanted to be here.”

“I know.” Harry kisses him some more. He finds that most of his anxiety seeps away just by kissing him. “If you really want to make it up to me, let’s pick up a pizza and head to yours.”

“That's a lovely idea…”

It happens to be the perfect idea and just what Harry needs to feel better. Later Louis paints his nails and listens to him recount his night. He promises to make it up to Niall and Nick as soon as he can. And he kisses him for a long time after Harry tells him about Abernathy.

Harry stands by his belief that they’re in this for the long run. No matter how hard it gets. They’re still learning from each other and growing with each other. And Harry wants that. More than anything else in the world.

It would be a lie to say he isn’t scared. So instead he tells himself to be brave.

They’ll make it. He just needs to believe that.

 

* * *

 

Amidst the craziness of 42nd Street, and the lights of Time Square not far off in the distance, Harry hasn’t stopped staring at Louis once.

They’re seated in Juniors, right in the heart of the city where the streets are brimming with tourists and taxi cabs. When Harry first moved here, he couldn’t take in enough of it all. The flashing marquees and the way everyone walked like they were gliding. He took one look and was a boy enchanted. But somehow with Louis in front of him, everything else looks remarkably mediocre.

Louis takes another slurp of his milkshake and smiles. “So. Tell me things… How’ve you been?”

“We talk everyday. I don’t really have much for you,” Harry says but he starts to smile wider. “Oh, I have another gig scheduled as of this morning.”

“Yeah? That’s great,” Louis says. They smile at each other again and laugh, leaning closer across the table. “I’ve missed you.”

Harry exhales. “Me too. I can’t believe you’re here. The city isn’t the same without you anymore,” he confesses, eating another chip to stop himself from dissolving into a sob story.

The truth is that he’s missed his boyfriend very much and it seems every aspect of his life now reminds him of Louis. The cactus on his windowsill that Louis brought for him. The balcony of his apartment where he and Louis sat while he practiced his violin. His violin—that reminds him of Louis too. His tattoos because Louis has each of them memorized, has traced them all with his fingertip or his mouth.

The streets and the subway. The honking of horns and those rare silent spaces at 3 or 4 in the morning in the dark of his bedroom. The Starbucks and Junior’s and the Barnes and Noble where Harry works. Everything has Louis Tomlinson written into it somehow.

“I’ll be back soon enough,” Louis says confidently, running his thumb through the condensation on his cup. “Have you looked into the London Philharmonic any further? Or the job at Cambridge?”

Harry smiles, though he hopes Louis can’t tell how tense it is. “I have. And the New York Philharmonic.”

“Any change in which one you’re leaning toward?”

Harry looks up at the ceiling as he thinks on this question—one he already has an answer to. He hums. “Not really,” he settles on saying. “Pretty much just playing it by ear. Literally, you know? Because I’m a violinist.” He laughs at his own joke. Louis lifts his brows and watches him somewhat pitifully.

“Playing it by ear? Really, H?” he says at last. “How many times have we talked about this now? A thousand, maybe? You can’t shape your life around me.”

“I’m not. I’m shaping my life…and just…taking you into much consideration.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m yours regardless of where you go.”

Harry rests his chin on his fist and simpers. “That’s sweet. I might write that into your song.”

“ _My_ song?” Louis repeats.

Harry simply grins. Louis narrows his eyes. There’s a note of curiosity in his gaze, hidden behind suspicion. He isn’t easy to fool at all. It’s plain for him to see how Harry is dodging the initial subject. But he can’t pass up this new information either.

“You’re writing a song about me?” he finally says.

Harry shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “It’s all over the place though so, no, you can’t hear it. Not yet.”

Louis bites his bottom lip when he smiles. He swirls a chip around in ketchup and munches on it. He follows it up with another slow sip of his milkshake, his bright blue eyes on Harry.

“Sometimes you make me feel like I’m a teenager,” he says. “I’m 28 and right now I kind of feel like I’m 16.”

Harry laughs. “I feel 16 all the time because of you. I write your name on my sheet music… Like in the margins.”

Louis snorts. “You do not.”

“I do, I swear. I’ll show you.”

Louis is _giggling_ and still biting his lip like he’s attempting to stop. It doesn’t work. He seems to second-guess his next words before he decides to let them spill. “I draw you. Sometimes we’re in board meetings and I start sketching. It starts off as just a vague model and then it ends up with curly long hair and your nose and a dimple too.”

Harry sits back in his chair, just laughing like an idiot, because they’re both just that— idiots. Idiots in love. “We’re pathetic,” he says.

“Oh, absolutely,” Louis agrees.

“So. How does it feel being back?” Harry asks after he’s finished his burger.

“I think my opinion is a bit skewed since you’re here. That makes it about a million times better.”

Harry can’t handle this guy at all. He drags his hand down his face. “Stop _flirting_ with me.”

“You know, I do intend to keep you. Means I have to put in some work.” Louis grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Harry exhales a big unseemly breath like the bray of a horse. “You’re too much.”

“It’s true anyway. What I said,” Louis replies. He sits back in his chair with a sigh. “This city is just as insane as I left it. But I miss it a lot. I miss you. That’s the truth.”

“We miss you too,” Harry says again. They share another warm smile and start again on their milkshakes. Louis’ ankle ends up around his beneath the table. There isn’t much to update each other on but they fill the silence easily, with nonsense talk and laughter. They end their lunch date with two slices of cheesecake: One to share now, one for later.

It’s odd: On the cab ride over to Louis’ place, with Louis’ head on his shoulder and his hand on his knee, Harry feels again like he’s sixteen with a crush. But also he feels more. He feels at once wild and stable. Juvenile and settled. Being with Louis is like running through an amusement park at ten years old and like snuggling by a fire in his old age.

And that’s odd, isn’t it?

“Been spending a lot of time here?” Louis asks as he sets his duffle down by the door and starts to kick off his shoes.

Harry watches him, hands tucked into his pockets, standing pigeon-toed by the coat cupboard. “Not so much during the week. My place is closer to campus. But on the weekends or when I need a quiet place to practice,” he shrugs. “Or when I miss you.”

Louis’ brows furrow. He allows Harry to take his coat and hang it in the cupboard. “Yeah, but you miss me all the time,” he says, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Getting a little full of yourself there. Might expect you to whip your cock out to compare sizes next.”

“No point in that. I’m quite pleased with the fact that you’re bigger. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Louis smiles.

“I would, actually,” Harry says honestly. He directs a pointed glance at Louis’ crotch and his smile grows. “Well?”

The three feet between them narrows to zero in the next instant. Their mouths meet, their hands reach for clothing and bare skin. Harry laughs when Louis pats his ass.

“So sexy,” Louis tells him. “You always look so fucking good.”

Harry’s mouth drops open when Louis scrapes his teeth over his neck. He cups Louis’ face and drags their mouths back together and dedicates the next minute to making out with him like they’re teenage boys. He reaches down to tug at Louis’ jeans, popping them open, pushing his hand down the front to cup him.

It’s been three weeks since he’s touched him, since they’ve touched each other. “Way too fucking long,” Harry whispers.

Louis’ eyes meet his, and his agreement is clear in the blue fire of his irises.

“Where is the bed in this place again?” he murmurs.

Harry laughs. “A month gone and you’re a lost boy,” he says and takes hold of Louis’ waistband and gives him a tug toward the bedroom.

It’s clear that Harry’s been spending a lot of time here though the bed is made. His boots and rucksack are over by the window, his guitar propped up in the armchair in the corner. Louis’ eyes flitter around for a second. All he gets is a second before Harry pushes him onto the bed and drags his jeans right down his legs.

“Really missed me…” Louis notes.

“Shut up, Lewis.”

Louis cackles, his head falling back on the bed. “Really, really missed me.”

“I did,” Harry murmurs, running his mouth over Louis’ cock, breathing him in. He’s missed this too. He spreads kisses up and down his length for a second, reacquainting himself, apologizing for his long absence. He’s an idiot.

And then he takes Louis into his hand and slides his mouth down around him.

“Oh,” Louis exhales. He laughs breathlessly, throwing his arm over his eyes. Harry grins as best as he can with his mouth full of cock. His eyes flutter closed. He determines now to show Louis just how much he’s missed him. Another airy laugh leaves Louis’ mouth. “Oh, _Harry_. Fuck.”

 

* * *

 

There’s really no reason for him to be so nervous. It's not like Louis is any different when he's in London compared to when he’s in New York.

But Harry’s leg bounces the entire drive over from Heathrow and he's twisted his lip ring so many times the skin around it is sore.

Louis tried to cancel his afternoon meetings so he could be there to pick him up himself. (Might have lessened some of Harry's anxiety.) He turned out to be far too occupied at the office to get away for long.

He sends a sleek black Mercedes for Harry instead, equipped with a bottle of champagne which the driver pours for him before they start on their way. Harry whips out his phone while he sips his glass.

**_Loving the champagne. x_ **

**_You’re so in love with me._ **

He doesn’t expect Louis to text back, considering he’s in a meeting. But a second later the dots appear.

**A little slow on the uptake aren’t u?**

**happy to know you’re almost here.. x**

The driver looks at Harry curiously when he giggles. Apparently, punks aren’t expected to giggle.

They pull up in front of Burberry’s London offices shortly after and the driver hops around to open Harry’s door and fetch his bags from the boot.

“Mr. Tomlinson instructed me to place your bags with the front desk. Is that alright?”

Like the dork he is, Harry shoots him two thumbs-up. And then the man starts to take his guitar case. “Oh,” Harry interjects. “Actually— I’ll just hold onto this one.”

He slings his guitar strap over his shoulder and pats it protectively. Fact is, he worked all summer before Year 10 just so he could afford his Les Paul. The day he lets it out of his sight is the day he is dead. And only for a short while, as he expects it to be buried with him.

He receives the same level of unwavering vigilance when he steps inside the gleaming white interior of the building. Everyone stares at him. _Everyone_. They pin him with their gazes and never release him until he is on the lift and the doors slide closed and they have no choice.

“Ignore them. Elitist snobs,” the young man leading him to Louis’ office says. George is his name.

Harry huffs a laugh. “Must suck having to work with them when you feel that way.”

“They’re not all bad. Mr. Tomlinson is great,” George says.

Harry’s gaze slides away from the glowing numbers above the lift doors and lands on George’s smiling face. He’s blatantly gay, attractive and more the kind of person Harry would picture as Louis’ type.

“Sorry, that sounded weird,” George waves his hand. “I admire Mr. Tomlinson as a designer and nothing more. I mean he’s hot but— anyway, he doesn’t stop talking about you. I’m his new intern, by the way. Started last week. Mr. Tomlinson has this picture of you on his desk that he looks at sometimes. And I _had_ to ask him who you were ‘cause you know, you’re you.”

Harry can’t take offense to that because he gets it. What a funny sight it must be for the creative director of Burberry kids to have a picture of a punk rocker on his desk.

A picture that he apparently gets caught looking at.

And now Harry is blushing and full of persistent butterflies. Exactly how long does this lift take to reach the top floor?

“ _Anyway_ , since I asked him, he doesn’t stop talking about you. He finds all sorts of reasons to mention you. Like how you’re both planning to get a dog. And he showed me his ear piercing.”

The lift doors open and Harry sends up a prayer of thanksgiving. Not that this isn’t all flattering. He’s just not sure how he’s meant to respond to any of it.

“ _Anyway_ , you’ve got him locked down, believe me,” George concludes.

“That’s good to know. Thank you…” Harry murmurs.

“Right this way. His office is straight ahead. He’s finishing up a meeting but you can go on in and make yourself comfortable and I’ll let him know you’re here. There’s tea and biscuits too,” George says with one final wink.

Harry heads down the hall right away, eager to be without the scrutiny and intrigue of strangers.

He passes two other offices with glass doors on his way but Louis’ office is nicely secluded from them, something about the way his door is positioned at the end of the hall that sets it above the rest.

Harry pushes the door open carefully, faintly worried he will trigger some alarm or break the clearly reinforced glass. He has a penchant for irrational fear.

He manages his way inside and stands there at the door, instantly and completely in awe. He’s never seen Louis’ office in New York. There was never any reason or time before Louis left. So the magnitude of Louis’ position has never been quite so clear to him.

Not until now.

Everything _glows_. The couch and the two armchairs near Louis’ desk are a creamy white leather. The rug is soft and patterned with geometric shapes. There are two desks, one large dark wood desk and another glass desk near the window with a lamp and sketches strewn about its surface.

The wall of windows allows for ample light that catches on every corner of the room; on the marble floors and leather and wood. It smells vaguely of Louis, not as much as his home would, but just enough that Harry can catch the scent.

He lifts his guitar strap off and sets the case on the floor. He keeps his hands at his sides in the event that he actually succeeds in nearly breaking something.

In the corner, there’s one of those wire figurines near the work desk, but it’s smaller, possibly because Louis is currently helping with designs for kids. A flat screen TV mounted above the couch is set on BBC News, even though Louis hardly ever watches the news when he’s home.

Harry fixes himself a quick cup of tea and nibbles on a biscuit while he wanders over to Louis’ desk. He slides his hand over the back of the big leather desk chair. Louis’ glasses sit beside his keyboard and a half-full cup of Yorkshire tea cools on the other end. There’s a flat calendar on that end as well and today’s date features an H drawn in the corner of the square.

Harry smiles and takes a seat in the chair and when he is engulfed in the soft leather, he pictures Louis who is much smaller than him being swallowed up by the thing. He laughs to himself, drumming his fingers on the wood grain, sipping his tea.

The iPad docked at the corner of the desk buzzes suddenly and lights up. Harry leans forward to peer at the reminder waiting there on the screen.

**Harry in London <3**

Most noticeable of all is the iPad’s lock screen. Because it’s a picture of them. More Harry than Louis, really, but still them together.

All that can be seen of Louis is a small portion of his face and his lips on Harry’s forehead. The rest of the picture is Harry, crinkly eyed and dimpled and happier than he’s ever looked before.

Harry drops his forehead to the desk and groans.

He doesn’t even know how it’s possible to feel like this. To feel so whole and complete. He just sits there with his head on the desk, longing for Louis to show up any minute now.

And then he does.

The door opens and Harry flies up out of the seat. Louis steps inside, one hand in his pocket, the other poised on the door handle. Harry's heart does a somersault and a backflip and a lot of other crazy shit that hearts aren’t meant to do.

Louis' eyes flicker over Harry standing at his desk before returning to the space between the door.

"Let Ian know I’ll speak with him before the end of the day,” he says to his assistant, Harry imagines. “And please continue holding my calls until I say. Thank you, Laura.”

With a smile, he pushes the door closed, turns the lock, and faces Harry.

"Hello, beautiful."

Harry resists the urge to melt into the leather chair. “Hi,” he exhales like he has been holding his breath since he last saw Louis two weeks ago.

Louis walks right into his space—technically Louis’ space when you think about it—and crowds him up against his desk. Harry grabs for his collar, pulls him in, and their mouths meet, just like always, just like they should.

"I missed you," Louis tells him.

Harry nods. "Me too. You smell nice."

"Was trying out new colognes today."

"You look nice too," Harry says, sliding his hands along the smooth material of Louis' dress shirt. He throws in a pat to Louis’ lovely bum.

"New clothes from the men's collection," Louis informs him.

"They would look better on your bedroom floor," Harry says. “No offense.”

Louis laughs softly. "Have to get you home so you can make that happen."

"Can you leave now?" Harry asks between kisses.

"In an hour."

Harry shuffles up onto Louis' desk, dragging him between his legs. "That's too long."

Louis pushes a stack of folders out of the way and lays Harry out on his desk, running his hand down his body, brushing his fingers over his trousers.

"So is ten minutes."

"What?" Harry asks breathlessly.

"Bet I can make you come in five."

Harry would be offended because he can hold out for much longer than five minutes. But he's also completely willing to put Louis to the test.

And then there's a knock at the door and Louis' hand stills just as he’s unbuttoning Harry’s jeans.

"Louis, it's Andrew Bailey on Line 1."

Louis’ eyes roll closed. "Thank you. I'll pick up right away," he calls back. He looks at Harry apologetically. " _That_ is my boss' boss. And I unfortunately can’t miss a call from him."

"Oh." Harry sits up, pushing his hair away from his eyes. “Well, pick up then. I’ll just— Be over there.” He slips down off the desk, adjusting his dick in his jeans. Louis reaches for his phone, eyes trailing over Harry as he moseys away.

Harry busies himself for a moment with sorting through Louis' collection of books, purposefully being seductive about the way he strolls around the room. More than once he catches Louis' eyes on him while he's on the phone or involved in a brief Skype call. They exchange a quick, fond smile and Louis returns to his work.

Eventually Harry reclines in the leather sofa and decides to just watch him, finding himself increasingly aroused by Louis in this sleek office and that silver name plate in front of him. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone and at some point, he removes his blazer and rolls his sleeves up, so the bird on his forearm that he got last month sits out and proud. He works himself into a silent fit just watching him.

“Time to go,” Louis finally says.

Harry collects his guitar eagerly. Louis leads him out of his office. They come to the front desk that was previously unoccupied when Harry arrived. Now there is a young blond woman sat there, wearing a headset and tapping away at her computer.

She lifts her gaze and gives Harry a mortified once over, clearly unaccustomed to seeing such devastated attire in a place of high fashion.

"Laura,” Louis says. She looks to him, brows lifted, smile big and bright. She doesn’t even look at Harry standing right beside him. Not until Louis sets his hand on Harry’s waist and says, “This is my boyfriend, Harry."

Laura's gaze snaps to him again and her mouth parts for a second of poorly concealed surprise. She recovers instantly with a plastic smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Same to you," Harry smiles. He's used to people looking at him the way she does and he never cares. But he does feel a surge of pride with Louis's hand on his hip.

"Big plans tonight?" she asks, her eyes on Louis.

Louis looks at Harry. "Not tonight, no. Just some quiet time inside, right?"

“Sounds good to me,” Harry grins. They must be disgustingly chummy, smiling at each other like they're the only ones in the room.

“Have a good night then,” Laura says to them both, dropping her gaze and starting back in on her paperwork.

“Same to you,” Harry tells her kindly. He gets it, you know? He isn't sure how anyone manages to _not_ fall in love with Louis.

"She likes you,” Harry tells him on the lift down.

“Hm?” Louis hums distractedly, his head resting on Harry’s shoulder. “Who, you mean Laura?”

“Yes. You haven't noticed?”

Louis lifts his head, and his brows. “No…” he laughs. “Wow. Shit, I must drive her crazy talking about you all the time.”

Harry smiles smugly. “Oh?”

“Shut up.” Louis returns his head to Harry’s shoulder.

“I didn’t say anything…” Harry murmurs with a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, you did. In your head. I heard it.”

Harry laughs again, and presses a well-deserved kiss to his temple.

They're quiet on the car ride to his flat. Louis takes his hand and sets their joined hands on his thigh while he drives, rubbing his thumb over Harry's skin. Such a small gesture and yet it feels significant.

Louis only speaks once and that's to say, "Could go for some pizza right now. From New York."

Harry laughs. "Should have brought some with me."

Louis tsks his disapproval. "I guess I'll just have to forgive you,” he says, flashing him a smile.

And then they're quiet again. And for no explainable reason, Harry's nerves return to disarray.

After they pull up to the building, Louis takes his guitar case so that Harry's other hand is free for him to hold. He introduces him to the concierge and the doorman and his neighbor and pretty much anyone they come in contact with. It's always, "This is my boyfriend, Harry" and it's always effective in getting Harry's insides feeling like soup.

And then the door to Louis' flat closes behind them and Harry wanders inside ahead of him.

"This is just as nice as the one in New York," he comments. It might even be nicer. Less sleek but still luxurious with a large stainless steel kitchen and white cabinets. There's a sizable dining room table with a bowl of fruit resting on top. Lots of windows over by the fluffy black couch, a flat screen TV mounted overtop an electric fireplace.

"You like it?" Louis asks from somewhere behind him.

"I do, yeah. I like it a lot...”

He feels Louis' arms navigate around his waist suddenly and give him a squeeze. "Good," he says, running his hand over Harry's tummy.

He reaches for the hem of his shirt and tugs it up over his back. Harry pulls it the rest of the way off while Louis drops a kiss to his shoulder blade and the center of his back. Louis' hands go to the button of his jeans and pops them open.

“Want to see the bedroom?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t answer. He pushes his jeans down to his ankles, giving Louis a lovely view when he bends over. He throws a glance over his shoulder and starts off in what he thinks is the right direction. Louis chuckles and follows after him.

*

He wakes up later that night for reasons he doesn’t understand. The time reads 3:20 A.M. He’s beyond tired from his flight and running around with Louis for dinner. Later today, they’ll have a long drive to Holmes Chapel too. But there he is awake.

It’s not until he rolls over that he figures it out. He thinks he does. It’s weird to think of him and Louis as bound by some supernatural force of love. But that’s his sneaking suspicion as he stares at the empty side of the bed where Louis fell asleep.

He pushes himself out of bed and pads into the hall. The door to one of the rooms is ajar, a thin stream of light spilling onto the hardwood floors. Harry nudges the door open further.

Louis is curled over his desk, eyes softly shut. Covered by a red knit blanket, his back rises with each deep breath takes. His glasses lie on the desk beside his hand, still clutching a pencil.

Harry walks over to the desk. He takes in the sketches spread around the surface. Of dresses and two-piece suits. All miniature sized. For children Harry imagines. He knows Louis is meant to be overseeing existing designs and giving suggestions where necessary. But he doesn’t know if creating new designs was a part of the plan. Hopefully he remembers to ask in the morning.

He cuts the small overhead desk light off and sets his hand on Louis’ shoulder.

“Louis…”

He makes a noise in response, inhaling sharply.

“Come on, babe,” Harry says, patting his shoulder lightly. “Back to bed.”

Harry doesn’t know how Louis’ been going for so long, as exhausted as he seems. When Harry gets him to his feet, he slumps against his body, and shuffles slowly beside him. He flops down on the bed ungracefully when they get there, one leg hanging off the mattress, face buried in his pillow. Harry laughs, readjusting his legs. He pulls the covers up over him and crawls into bed again.

 

* * *

 

Louis mounts the large lawnmower with only a little help from Robin. With his sweater paws and petite frame, it’s marginally comical. Once he’s seated though, he looks generally unfazed. There aren’t many tasks too big for Louis to take on and he somehow always finds a way of subduing even the most monumental ones.

Robin explains how to grip the clutch to get the mower moving. Louis encloses his hands around both handles firmly like he would a motorcycle. And he looks good doing it too. Further confirmation that Harry should invest in getting his motorcycle like he’s talked about.

Louis presses the clutch and the mower lurches forward. He laughs at himself for only a second before he tries again. Before long, he’s cruising around the massive expanse of their backyard, looking like he’s been mowing lawns all he life. He shoots Harry a thumbs up from across the lawn. Harry raises his own thumb into air and shoots him one back, unnecessarily proud.

He feels his mother’s eyes on him when Louis starts another circle around the yard. He lowers his mug away from his mouth and turns his head. “What are you thinking?”

She smiles, her chin resting on her fist. “I like him a lot.”

“I knew you would,” Harry says. And not just because Louis paid for his surprise trip home.

He tucks his knees up against his chest for more warmth. It’s a cool autumn day and they’re all adorned in jumpers and puffy vests, armed with cups of tea. He and his mum sit on the wooden swing, sharing a fluffy fleece blanket. But still he tightens his arm around his legs when a cool breeze coasts through the yard.

She’s still just staring at him, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to figure out a particularly challenging puzzle.

“You’re so…different with him,” she says, speaking with her hand the way she does sometimes. “The way you look at him. The way he looks at _you_.” She takes a sip of her tea. “I haven’t seen that before.”

Harry stares into his mug resting in his lap. “I love him.”

“I’ve heard you say that before,” she dismisses. “This is something else.”

Harry smiles and lifts his cup for a sip. “I think he’s my soulmate.”

She looks at him for a long time. Harry looks at Louis.

His mum reaches out and runs her hand through his hair the way he’s always liked. “Yes. Maybe that’s the word,” she murmurs.

They watch Louis and Robin out on the lawn, Robin raking leaves and Louis just driving around in lazy eights, looking way too chuffed about operating a mower. “If he asked me to marry him today, or like…move to Australia with him even, I would do it,” Harry murmurs.

His mum drops her hand away from his hair. “Not until you finish school, H,” she replies with a stern look. “ _Please_.”

Harry smiles. “That’s what I meant, of course,” he says. “I mean it though. I want to marry him.”

Her eyes flicker back toward the lawn after a moment and Harry notices how the afternoon sun glistens on the moisture building within them. She takes his hand in hers and they sit that way for a while in silence, until Louis and Robin have finished in the yard, and are heading back to join them.

They reconvene inside by the fireplace and start up Notting Hill on the flat screen. He and Louis take the loveseat, tucked under a blanket.

“Is your mum alright?” Louis says quietly near his ear, confident they can’t be heard over the TV. “Looked like she was crying earlier.”

“She’s happy for me is all,” Harry says, resting his head on the back of the couch. “You know the sporadic crying thing I do. I get it from her.”

Louis breathes a quiet laugh. “Ah, finally an explanation.”

Harry smiles. “She just sees how happy I am. Because of you.”

“Glad I could help then,” Louis murmurs, brushing a kiss over Harry’s forehead. He returns his gaze to the television and Harry glances at his mum, finds that she is looking at him. They share a smile, a hundred happy words passing silently between them. She almost looks like she wants to cry again. If she does, this time Harry will join her.

He feels infinitely happy right here with all of the people he loves most, excluding Gemma.

He has built up a second home over in New York, surrounded by his friends and a sizable fan base too. He’s grown accustomed to the shadowy busy streets lined by towering buildings that catch sunlight on every corner. To playing violin on their tiny fire escape to the city that never sleeps. He loves New York, will always love New York.

But his home is wherever these people are, wherever Louis is. And if he never saw the city again, that would be alright.

 

* * *

 

He definitely should have stayed in London.

It’s been almost a month since he’s seen Louis. And though school and work prevent him from going home just yet, there are few minutes in the day when he doesn’t think about packing his bags and taking off.

It's an especially busy period for them both. For Harry, the time between October and November means midterms and recitals. For Louis, it means starting preparation for the winter season and upcoming shows. And he has his hands full, quite literally with child models.

Harry misses him more than he can put into words. He goes silent on the phone sometimes just so he can listen to Louis talk-- about his work and his family and whatever else. He loves the way his enthusiasm grows the longer he stays in London. Harry is happy for him, really he is. Just a few months ago, Louis was miserable about returning home and now it seems he has fallen in love with it all over again.

But if Louis doesn't miss New York, then by association, he doesn’t miss Harry much either. The longer he stays away, maybe the more accustomed he grows to being without him.

Meanwhile, for him, nothing changes. He thinks each day whether Louis is here or not, he falls a bit more in love with him. He remembers the days they've spent in his tiny apartment with rain drenching the earth and their sweat-damp skin pressed together. With Harry strumming a working song for Louis. And Louis writing his name in Sharpie on Harry's back and Harry's thighs for when he isn't there.

He leaves him with plenty of marks. Love bites between his legs and in the places that aren't covered with tattoos. He leaves him with bruises on his hips that Harry will press his fingers into the morning after.

Harry has his ways of remembering Louis. He will draw the sleek black vibrator Louis bought for him a month ago out of his bedside table and fuck himself with Louis' name in his throat.

He will run his thumb over the piercing at the top of his ear.

He will work harder on Louis' song and play bits of it for him when they Skype.

He never forgets Louis. He's always thinking of him. Always worrying that Louis isn’t doing the same.

And so when Louis is finally set to fly in to the city, following a conference in Montreal, Harry goes into a proper frenzy.

Meaning that he cleans Louis' apartment. Again. He trusts Elise, the woman who usually does Louis' housekeeping. But he wants the place to feel like a love nest. He fluffs and refluffs the pillows. He buys flowers for the dining room table. And then he starts in on dinner.

He doesn't have much of an opportunity to throw down in the kitchen usually. Being a penniless university student doesn't allow for splurging on groceries. But he goes out and raids a local organic market. He buys bright veggies, a supple eggplant and verdant broccoli and sunshine yellow squash. He picks up smoked sausage and golden potatoes. And then he sets himself up in the kitchen and…throws down.

His mash is whipped to a fluffy perfection and his sautéed sausage and vegetables are giving off a savory aroma that's bound to get Louis feeling famished, eating his fill, and then ravishing Harry on the kitchen floor.

Harry has very specifically been ignoring his cock for this very reason. He hasn't pulled one off in about two weeks since knowing Louis was heading his way. That's dedication, okay. And perhaps insanity.

Anyway, the point is that tonight, Harry is going to get fucked repeatedly by his very hot, older boyfriend.

He's just cut off the hob and is engaged in a very intense air guitar rendition of Jukebox Hero blasting from the Bluetooth speakers in the living room. And then the music cuts off. Because there's a call coming through.

Harry shoves his hair away from his face and scrambles for his phone.

"Hello?" he pants.

"Hi," Louis answers.

Usually, Louis' voice is like fresh air. But from the downturn of his first word, Harry knows something is wrong. He bites his lip and waits.

"So, my flight got delayed or something. I'm actually not sure what happened. They say the next flight isn’t until tomorrow morning. When I fly in, I've got meetings first thing and a staff lunch."

Harry nods, even though Louis can't see him. "That sucks. I’m sorry about your flight,” he says, now sitting on the floor of the living room, knees tucked against his chest. He sighs. “So…when will I see you?”

"Tomorrow, definitely. But…not ‘til the afternoon, I imagine."

So… just one night then. A few hours really. Such a measly amount of time to remind Louis that he’s here and he loves him.

Harry rests his forehead against his knees.

“Harry?”

“I’m here.” He falls silent again.

“You alright?” Louis asks.

Harry shrugs one shoulder like Louis is here to see. It takes him a moment before he mumbles on, “I haven’t seen you in a month.”

"I know," Louis says softly. “I'm sorry.

“It’s not your fault. I just don’t want to say I’m alright if I’m not.”

Louis sighs heavily. “I wouldn’t ask you to. If you’re unhappy, you should tell me.”

Alright then. “I’m unhappy.”

Silence. It stretches on for so long Harry pulls the phone away from his ear to check that they’re still connected. And he knows they are from the quiet sounds of the airport terminal, a lonely attendant speaking into a microphone, solitary wheels of a rolling luggage bag. But Louis is silent for what seems like forever. And then he’s not.

“Like unhappy with me? With our relationship?”

His voice is a little higher in pitch. And echoes like he’s turned into a corner, facing a wall. Harry pictures him in a vacant terminal and his heart hurts.

“No,” Harry says quickly. “That’s not what I mean. I mean with the way things are right now.”

Louis goes quiet again and Harry gets it. Being silent feels like a comfort. That scares Harry too. “I’m really trying…” Louis says. “I’ve been trying.”

“I'm not blaming you,” Harry reiterates. He knows he sounds frustrated and he is. But not with Louis. He takes a breath. “I'm sorry. Please don't worry about it.”

More silence. The attendant is speaking again, calling a James Something to the podium. Louis says, "I'll see you as soon as I can, I promise."

Harry presses the heel of his palm into his eyes to stop them from burning. "Keep me posted and all that."

"I will. I love you," Louis says.

"I love you too."

Harry leaves the food where it is after they hang up. He blows out the candles and shuffles into the bedroom. He pulls the vibrator out of his bedside table and does it a little rough, biting the edge of his pillow against the burn. It pales in comparison to the loneliness and the worry and the dread.

*

He blinks his eyes open to the dark of their bedroom and immediately he registers the sinking of the mattress under another person’s weight.

"Harry?"

He bolts upright, reaching for the bedside lamp, clicking it on.

Louis is still wearing his coat and his scarf, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his eyes bright. "Hi," he smiles.

Harry pins him to the bed in a remarkable feat of athleticism. He crushes their mouths together and licks deep into Louis'.

Heat sparks all along his body and catches in Louis' gaze when he pulls back to look at him, his eyes trailing over Harry’s naked body. Harry reaches for the scarf around Louis' neck and tugs it free and latches his mouth to his favorite spot beneath Louis’ jaw.

"Fuck, baby..." Louis murmurs. Harry has missed hearing his voice this way too.

He pushes their mouths back together, can't stop kissing him. It’s been ages since he’s just kissed him. "I missed you so much," he says in the spaces where their mouths aren’t together. “How are you here?”

"I went to another airport about two hours away. There was another flight,” Louis says with a warm smile. “I missed you too. So much.”

Harry drops his head to Louis' chest and exhales a shuddery breath.

"What's wrong?" Louis says quietly.

Harry is so in love it hurts. That's what's wrong. He wants to be with Louis all the time even when he knows it isn’t possible. He gets him for two days before he's gone again. He wants to be with him and yet he still doesn't know what the future holds for them in terms of locale, if fate or destiny or whatever will be kind to them, even though it hasn't been so far.

"Are you crying?"

Harry shakes his head and sits back on Louis’ hips. He slides his fingers along the buttons of Louis' black dress shirt and starts to work them open. "I missed you, that's all."

Louis doesn't believe him. It's obvious from the way he pushes Harry's hair away from his face and sets his steady gaze on him. Harry can’t take that right now. He doesn’t want to answer questions.

Louis’ eyes flutter when Harry scrapes his nails down his firm chest and rocks his hips back and forth over Louis’ crotch.

"I want to ride you," he says. "Is that okay?”

"Yeah,” Louis nods. “Of course."

He sits up, jostling Harry momentarily in his lap. Harry pushes his coat off his shoulders and the dress shirt too. He unbuttons Louis’ trousers and drags them down his legs before returning to his perch, rocking his bare arse again over Louis' cock, more desperate now than ever.

"Want it now," he sighs.

Louis shakes his head. "You can't just- Let me just…" he mutters, reaching between them and dragging a thumb over Harry's hole. He freezes.

Harry rests his head on Louis’ shoulder and speaks quietly, but urgently. "After we got off the phone, I used the vibrator you bought for me. I fucked myself and pretended it was you,” he murmurs with a kiss to Louis’ shoulder. He pulls back again and meets his eyes. “I'm ready now. Come on."

“Jesus,” Louis breathes. “Okay.”

They spare a moment for lube but skip the condom because they got the hassle of testing out of the way during the summer. And because right now, Harry wants nothing more than to feel Louis in him unobstructed.

He slips down on him, feeling sore from earlier but loving it. Louis lets Harry use him like he used that vibrator. And Harry does, but better. He isn’t rough about it this time. He moves on Louis’ cock like he’s in a trance.

"You're gorgeous, baby,” Louis says, running his hand over Harry’s thigh, up along his torso. “Fuck, you always know just how to take my cock.” His voice goes breathless, his long eyelashes flutter. “Only you. Never want anyone else."

"Can't have anyone else,” Harry tells him. “You're mine."

"Fuck yes," Louis agrees with a slap to Harry’s thigh. He curls his hand around his hips and urges him a little faster. His head lolls against the mattress. He licks his pretty pink lips. Totally lost to pleasure but still intent to give and give as much as Harry wants. And Harry wants it all.

He doesn’t know when or why he starts crying. He never does. He wishes sometimes that he weren’t so bloody sensitive. It ruins the punk rock thing, especially after a show when he’s feeling overwhelmed by the turn out and the people shouting his name. Niall and Lou never know what to do with him. Harry never knows what to do with himself.

And he suspects sometimes that Louis doesn’t either. Like now when the sex is so unbelievably good and Harry’s tears are dripping onto Louis’ chest. He imagines that these are the times Louis regrets being with someone so hysterical.

And then Louis reaches up and cups his cheek.  "It's okay," he murmurs softly. "It's alright."

Harry turns his face into his palm.

"Come on, love," Louis grips his hips with his free hand and thrusts upward. It feels delicious, the power in his hips. Harry wants more of that. That's all he wants.

He turns onto the bed, pulling Louis with him, rolling them over. Louis doesn't even hesitate, just starts snapping his hips.

"Harder, please. Louis--"

Louis does as requested, gives it to him harder than before, until Harry is weeping and swearing and his blood runs through his veins like magma. He's nearly bent in half, one leg propped on Louis' shoulder, the other leg pinned to the bed by Louis' hand, and he feels as though he's being split open and torn apart and it's more than okay. Because he trusts that Louis will put him back together again.

They’ll always put each other back together.

When Louis comes, he cries out, his whole body locking up for a long moment while he pulses white-hot inside of Harry. And then he pulls free and pushes Harry onto his stomach and tugs his hips up and his tongue meets the sore, puffy skin of Harry's hole.

Harry cries. He honest-to-God presses his cheek to the mattress and lets it happen. He breathes unsteadily through the moment while his other hand holds gently to Louis’ sweat-damp hair. Louis mouths and sucks at his rim, rubbing soothing hands up and down his thighs, murmuring delirious words of praise.

Harry ascends to this place where his pain and his hurt are tangible things he has wrestled and subdued. He reaches the peak of the mountain of his troubles and he cries because Louis got him there. Because Louis always gets him there. Makes him feel like he’s won at life just because he’s his.

Louis flattens his chest along Harry's back, covering Harry with the warmth of his body, and wraps his hand around his cock and speaks into his ear.

"Someday you're going to have everything you want because you deserve nothing less,” he murmurs. He bites gently on Harry’s shoulder and then kisses the spot. His thumb brushes Harry’s pierced nipple. His voice is a song in his ear, “If I could give you the world, I'd do it now."

"I just want you," Harry coughs the words. He looks down his body at Louis’ hand speeding over his cock. His eyes roll shut.

"You have me, Harry. Don't forget that. You have me."

On the upstroke, Louis squeezes him just right, his hand firm and sure. And Harry comes, harder than ever before, his eyes squeezed shut against the stars swimming across his vision. He spills onto the duvet and over Louis’ hand and pants in his arms until he is truly well-spent.

They're still suspended when Louis pulls him up for a bath and washes his hair and makes him drink a cup of tea while he changes the sheets. He ends up finishing the cup when Harry decides he's had enough. And then he tugs him into bed and though usually, they would spoon, Louis faces him.

"So, want to talk?" he finally asks quietly.

Harry shakes his head, shuffling forward to tuck his face into Louis' neck.

"Talk to me," Louis says. “Please?”

Harry doesn't even know where to begin. It seems like forever passes before he figures it out. He licks his lips and speaks softly, his face hidden away against Louis’ scruffy jaw.

"I miss you so much when you're gone… Even right now, I've started to miss you already,” he says, his throat sore, eyes burning. He exhales another deep breath. “You have no idea— how much you mean to me. How happy you make me. And all the time I spend without you is starting to seem like a waste. Whenever something happens, you're the first person I want to tell. Every time I wake up I wish you’re there. I love you so much. And sometimes I just feel miserable. And I just want to be with you. That's literally all I want. And it’s just getting hard to pretend otherwise."

He hears Louis swallow rather than sees. He feels his arms tighten around him.

Harry mumbles on. "I'm kind of terrified about the future and where we'll end up. I'm terrified about losing you. About us drifting apart. Because I really just can't..." His voice breaks off and he decides not to talk any further, has nothing more to say. He shrugs in conclusion.

"Harry..." Louis’ voice breaks too. Harry sits up and finds that Louis' eyes are shining more brightly than usual. But before he can inspect further, Louis turns his face into his pillow as if to hide.

"I love you so much," Louis echoes him, his voice slightly muffled. "And I'm sorry I'm putting you through this long distance bullshit. I want to be here with you, I swear--"

Harry tugs him by the chin into a kiss and effectively silences him. He looks at him sternly. "I’m not saying any of this to make you feel guilty. None of this is your fault. There’s nothing you can do to make this any better. You’re doing more than enough. If anything, it’s the universe that’s to blame. Or fate, whatever."

"Still, I should be here."

"Or maybe I should be in London. This isn't any more your doing than it is mine."

Louis seems to resign on that point. He runs his fingers idly through Harry’s hair.

"How is it even possible to feel like this?” he murmurs. “I always feel like half a person without you."

That brings a flood of relief though Harry’s body. He exhales a shaking breath. "I know the feeling," he says. And he’s grateful it’s not just him. “I don’t want you to worry about me or feel bad about what I said. We’ll be alright, won’t we?”

“More than alright. Someday soon, I promise.”

Harry reminds himself, as he’s drifting to sleep, that Louis hasn’t ever broken a promise.

*

Louis wakes him up with tea and a blowjob. He stays Harry's orgasm by pulling off at random to bite or suck bruises into his thighs and over his tummy. He edges him for nearly an hour before Harry resorts to begging, which might have been Louis’s primary objective in the first place.

Afterwards Louis rests his head on Harry's stomach and stays there while Harry runs his fingers through his hair and finishes his chilled tea.

"When’s your meeting?" he asks.

"At 9," Louis answers.

Harry glances at the clock on his bedside. Bright green numbers read 8:34. His eyes snap back to Louis. "Hey, it’s--"

"I'm not going," Louis mumbles sleepily. "I’m not going to any of them. Not today."

Harry’s brows furrow but his lips twitch. _Score_. "Why not?"

"Because today, young Harold—” Louis picks his head up and looks at him and grins. “Today’s just for you."

Harry can't help it when he practically turns into a solar beam. “What did you tell them?”

“That I had explosive diarrhea.”

Harry chokes on his tea. “Stop it.”

“No. I told them my boyfriend’s gone into labor.” Appropriately, he blows a quick raspberry into Harry’s tattooed tummy.

Harry laughs and swats him away. “Be serious.”

“Honestly? I said I couldn’t make it. Simple as that. Spoke to my boss and told him something’s come up and I wouldn’t be there. He told me to take care.”

“And you won’t get fired?”

Louis snorts. “Me? No, babe. We have a greater likelihood of getting you pregnant.”

Harry’s eyes nearly roll through his brain and out the back of his head. “As long as you’re sure.”

“Very sure,” Louis says. "So? What shall we do?"

First, they go for a jog.

And despite his legs being longer, Harry has the hardest time keeping up with Louis. Louis runs a lot is the thing. He's used to it. And more than once, he has to pause up ahead, jogging in place while he waits for Harry to catch up.

"I'm forgetting who the old man is here," he calls to him.

"Shut up,” Harry grumbles. “You're not even old.”

Louis laughs, all loud with his head thrown back. Harry can't even be mad at him. Not when he's so gosh damn beautiful.

They have breakfast at the Hungry Ghost, Harry’s favorite cafe, sharing an omelet and a plate of French toast topped with strawberries and bacon. They sip cups of coffee and update each other on the past week. Louis tells Harry about the Burberry jumpers he sent over for his mum and Gemma recently, ones from the most recent season, and Harry looks at him with dopey eyes the whole time.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs. “That was very thoughtful.”

Louis shrugs like it isn’t a big deal. “Was happy to do it.”

Harry has a sudden urge to stand up on the table and point at Louis and yell to the rest of the patrons how much he fucking loves this man.

There’s one buttercup yellow rose in the center of the table. He takes advantage of the photo op to snap a picture of Louis with his feathery hair, bright blue eyes, and scruffy chin.

“You’re really— you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, snapping a few more. He turns the phone to him each time. “Look at you. Jesus.”

Louis eventually covers his rosy face with his hand and tells Harry, “Bugger off.”

After breakfast, they go to the Museum of Modern Art. They walk around hand-in-hand, odd couple as they are, drawing enough attention to themselves like actual pieces of art. But Louis doesn’t seem to care.

He holds Harry tighter. He kisses him longer. (And Harry does the same.) He buys him prints and souvenirs that Harry insists he doesn’t really need. But he can’t deny the Andy Warhol print or his new red MOMA mug.

He doesn't want to head home yet. Of course, he appreciates cuddling in bed with Louis. But it seems like a waste this time when they could be traipsing around the city, exploring things they never had a chance to.

Louis does make one more stop. To the Burberry store to "pick something up," which he says with an extra note of secrecy. He has Harry wait in the front of the store, surveying all the posh, ridiculously priced clothing, while he slips into the back room like the true VIP he is.

When he reappears, it’s with a black garment bag that Harry eyes suspiciously the whole way home.

"What's in that thing?" he asks on their way up the lift, poking Louis in his side.

"You'll see," Louis curls away from him to avoid being tickled.  “I have surprises for you.”

Harry leans his hip against the opposite wall. "Surprises?” he says with special emphasis on the plural suffix.

"Yes, you'll see," Louis repeats with a smirk.

When they're inside, he drags him into the bedroom and lays the garment bag down on the bed, and slides the zipper down the center.

There's a crisp suit jacket waiting inside. A white dress shirt. And an embroidered floral bowtie. While Harry is staring down at the ensemble, Louis steps behind him and slides his arms around his waist.

"I'm taking you out tonight," he says. "I don't care what you wear. But I got this for you and you can wear it if you'd like."

Harry holds onto Louis' forearms because if he doesn’t he might fall over. No one has ever bought him nice clothes. Well, except for his mum. But those boyhood jumpers don’t really count.

The suit lying on his bed is richly crafted. That much is plain to see. The black of the jacket is the purest, deepest black. The white of the shirt is the sharpest white. And the bowtie looks as though each tiny red or pink rose was embroidered by hand. No one he’s dated before Louis would ever think he might look nice in something like this.

"It seems so expensive. I don't want to ruin it.”

"You couldn't ruin it. It was made for you," Louis says. He steps away, "Now…"

Harry turns to him, already beginning to yearn for his warmth. He waits.

"I have to go get ready myself,” Louis says. “I'll be back for you at six."

He kisses him quickly on the corner of his mouth and then he wiggles his fingers and slips out of the bedroom door. Harry releases a big puff of air that ruffles his hair. He eyes the suit again, runs his fingers over the smooth fabric.

And alright, he might as well.

*

By the time Louis returns to the flat, Harry has scrubbed himself clean in the shower and fixed his hair to a curly cascading perfection. But he hasn’t made much progress in regards to his fancy outfit. Because well, as it turns out, he doesn’t know how to tie a bow tie.

It’s all rather unfortunate too because Louis returns looking like James Bond with his hair neatly coiffed, wearing a fitted black suit that makes a marvel of his already marvelous bum. He’s holding a massive bouquet of red roses in his hand and the whole moment would have been much nicer if Harry looked ready to receive them.

“What happened?” Louis asks, holding the bouquet out to the side.

Harry frowns. “This happened,” he says waving the bow tie around.

“Jesus, okay,” Louis pushes the bouquet into his hands. “These are obviously for you.”

“They’re beautiful. Thank you,” Harry says, taking a quick sniff of them before Louis steps close to him, the loose bow tie now in hand. He’s close enough that Harry can smell the spicy sweetness of his cologne. A Burberry scent, he imagines. He sets his free hand on Louis’ hip just because he can. “You look beautiful too. You look incredible…”

Louis shoots him a smile. “Thank you,” he says bashfully. He starts in on the bow tie, his tongue peeking out just a tad while he concentrates. It doesn’t take him long at all, which Harry expects of a man who has possibly crafted a bow tie or two at some point in his life.

"Where are your piercings?"

Harry blinks himself out of his Louis-centered daze.

"I took them out,” he says. “Since it seems we’re going someplace really fancy."

Louis runs his hands over Harry’s shoulders, smoothing out the shirt. "Does it make you feel better to have them out?" he asks.

Harry shrugs. He personally likes to wear them everywhere, even recitals. But he thinks the tattoos might be wild enough. He doesn't want to draw too much unwanted attention or embarrass Louis if they go somewhere more upscale.

"Put them back in," Louis says when Harry takes too long to answer. "You like them. And not that it matters but I like them too. Fuck everyone else."

"Well, I don't think you'd want me to do that."

Louis' eyes roll. "You’re the most ridiculous boy. Go on. Get all adorned in your jewelry. We can’t be late."

“Right. Because we have to be at… what was it called again?”

“Nice try, babe.” Louis taps him on his bum and once again leaves the bedroom.

Harry puts his lip ring back in and his eyebrow piercings. And while he’s at it, he lines his eyes with black eyeliner too. He slips his rings back on his fingers.

He pulls his arms through the fitted black suit jacket, lifts his bouquet back into his hands, and steps out of the room.

He holds his arms out at his sides, "How do I look?"

Leaning against the wall by the front door, Louis’ eyes sweep over his body. He smiles. "Stunning."

*

“So where are we going?” Harry asks once their driver pulls away from the kerb.

Louis looks at him. “Guess what? It’s still a surprise.”

“I think you could probably tell me now…”

“I think you’re right.” Instead, Louis takes his hand and kisses his palm.

He still doesn’t explain when they pull up in front of the Lincoln Center or when they’re walking towards the glowing golden windows. It’s only once they step inside and Harry sees the banners for Otello that things start to fall into place.

It’s an opera based on Shakespeare’s Othello and the company putting on the production is only doing so for another week. Harry has been meaning to catch it before then but hasn’t found the chance. He thinks he might have briefly mentioned it to Louis on the phone.

His gaze snaps to Louis just in time to see him drawing an envelope out of his inner breast pocket, extracting two gold tickets from inside. He hands one to Harry.

“This was all very last minute. As in this morning. But I managed to get really good seats…” Louis is saying. “This is the one you said you liked, isn’t it? Or was it the other one? The one that starts with a T?”

“I love you so much,” Harry blurts. He wants to kiss him until every breath in his lungs is gone and pushed into Louis.

Louis lifts his brows and starts to smile. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

It’s more than that. There is so much more that Harry means to say right now but he doesn’t get the chance.

Their seats are really, really good. Louis must have spent more money on just one of them than Harry makes in a week at Barnes & Noble.

The overture is a gripping and flawlessly executed opening that has Harry on the edge of his seat before anyone has even begun singing. Someday he hopes to play in an orchestra like the one down below. For now, he admires the perfect harmony of stringed instruments and woodwinds and the twinkling melody of a grand piano the way he did when he first fell in love with the violin years ago.

Each act from then on flows perfectly into the other. The arias are mellifluous and magical. Harry spends the majority of the time choked up on emotion because of the music and because of Louis. He has a few glasses of smooth champagne but feels bubbly for wholly different reasons.

He is on his feet, clapping up a storm when it’s over. His eyes sting but he manages not to burst into tears. Louis claps along too, wearing this enormous smile that’s directed more at Harry and his flushed cheeks than at the actual cast taking their bows.

By now, Harry is ready to take Louis home and thank him quite thoroughly. But Louis leads him back to the car and when they’re seated inside, he says, “Hope you’re hungry” before nodding to the driver. Harry doesn’t complain because he happens to be _famished_.

Their next stop is a gourmet Japanese restaurant known as Masa. It’s dimly lit and elegantly decorated but the mood is just right, not at all stiff or uninviting the way Harry expects fancy places to be, but with an air of importance still permeating the space. They occupy a quiet table near a trickling fountain wall with booth-style seating, which is perfect for Harry to scoot close and keep his thigh pressed to Louis’, or their fingers interlocked.

He is tempted more than once to Google the price range at this place but he can’t sneak his phone out of his pocket to do it with Louis watching him. And Louis never stops watching him, or touching him, or dropping kisses on his hand.

“Did I say yet that you look beautiful?” he says.

Harry chuckles. “I’m pretty sure you said it when we first sat down.”

“I’ve just never seen a rock star wear Burberry so well,” Louis says.

Harry laughs louder, careful not to snort. He rests his chin in his palm. “Oh, so it’s the suit you like, is it?”

“Honestly, it’s both. More you than the suit, I promise. But it’s a lot to take in,” Louis says, his eyes running over Harry. “With the piercings and the eyeliner. I feel like there should be a photographer here.”

Harry turns his mouth toward his palm to hide his smile. But one dimple remains exposed. “To take pictures of you, I hope.”

Louis leans in and kisses him for that. They lift their menus again.

Harry tries to hold back on ordering too much sushi but Louis is adamant about ensuring that he has whatever he wants. So the plates keep coming and his cup is always filled with sake and after a lot of campus food and cheap beer, it’s well appreciated.

For dessert, they have green tea layer cake, a gorgeous confection that Harry sneaks a picture of to show his mum.

When they are full and bursting in their fancy Burberry trousers, the waiter slides the check onto the table. Louis glances fleetingly at the slip of paper before tucking his black American Express card into the folder and handing it back with a bright smile.

Harry stares at him, looking for signs of regret or that expression he gets on his own face when he’s gotten a new tattoo knowing he didn’t really have the money. Louis just looks as calm as always, eating more of his cake, his free hand returning to Harry’s thigh and rubbing lazy circles.

Sometimes Harry forgets how wealthy Louis is. Or how, to a lot of people, Louis is a celebrity, an idol, or role model, someone who they will never sit down with for tea or laugh with over pizza and rom-coms. And somehow amidst the billions of people in this world, the person lucky enough to claim him happens to be Harry.

Even now that seems unbelievable.

Louis is the single greatest person Harry has ever met. And he treats him like no one else cares to. Harry dresses a certain way and people assume he won't like certain things. They make assumptions about him that Louis never has. Or at least, Louis has never treated Harry differently based on his assumptions.

Maybe when he first saw Harry sitting there at his hospital bed, he might have been anxious or concerned, especially after what had just happened to him. Harry knows he can look a little intimidating at first glance, which was why he made it a point to smile as brightly as possible when Louis first opened his eyes.

But right from the start, whether he felt wary of Harry or not, Louis spoke to him the way he spoke to everyone else. And quickly, without having to try hard at all, worked his way into a very permanent spot in Harry’s heart.

In the car with his head resting on Louis’ shoulder, he hears him tell the driver to make one more stop.

“Louis…” Harry mumbles. “You can’t spend any more money on me.”

“I’m not. This is different. One last surprise.”

That’s how they end up in the large open field of Central Park, on a big quilt Louis pulled from the boot of the car.

They're just lying there, not touching or speaking. Harry stares up at the endless stars staring back at him—so much clearer here than in any other part of the city—and simply enjoys the stillness of the world around them, the honking of car horns echoing softly in the distance.

"Come here," Louis says after a moment. Harry shuffles across the quilt and rests his head on Louis' chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne. He feels Louis move around a bit and draw something out of his pocket. A folded slip of paper. With his arm wrapped around Harry’s shoulders, he unfolds the paper above them.

Harry’s brow creases as he studies it. The top reads “Star Registration” and the rest is a printed form, signed by Louis and stamped at the bottom.

“I did this back in August. Or well, I started the process. And it wasn’t all approved until two weeks ago. You can apparently buy a star online without much hassle at all. But if you want to get a really good one, the process is a bit more complicated.”

Harry turns his head to peer up at him. “A star—?”

“Yeah. I named it Blessed Unrest. But you can change it any time you like because it’s yours. We might not be able to see it because—”

Harry pushes himself up onto his elbows and stares down at him. “Are you saying you bought me a star?”

“Yeah, a pretty good one too. I wanted to save this until Christmas. But you know I’m not that patient,” Louis says. He tugs him back down and points up to the sky. “You see the little dipper, yeah? It’s close by the handle. It’s small but it’s bright. And it’s a newer star. Or one they’ve discovered recently. Like I said, it took a long time and a lot of bidding too but—”

Harry turns his face into Louis’ chest and squeezes his eyes shut. “ _Why_?”

Louis sets the paper at his side. “Because I love you.”

Harry’s eyelashes grow damp but if any tears fall, they disappear in the dark material of Louis’ blazer. He stays there for a long time, trying not to be _too_ overwhelmed. He wonders when this will end, this feeling of being consumed by Louis. He hopes it never does.

"I wish there were more ways for me to reassure you. But you'll just have to take my word for it." Louis squeezes him tight and speaks softly, "I belong entirely to you, Harry. You're the first and the last thing I think about every day. I never stop speaking about you. The kids that I work with know you by name and ask for you and I'm happy to tell them about you whenever I have the chance. I love you so much. I love you more than I think anyone has ever loved another person. And I'm not going anywhere. Tomorrow they could reassign me to Antarctica-"

"Don't even joke..." Harry warbles.

"I'm not done," Louis laughs and shushes him. "They could put an even greater distance between us and I would still belong to you. I'd still love you. I'd still spend the days thinking about you. I'm yours. Now and tomorrow and forever.And I need you to believe that. Because it's the most real thing in this world to me. It's the thing that keeps me going. You have to just trust me. Trust _us_."

It feels impossible for Harry to contain all his emotion right then. This time for sure he fears he will explode with it. He holds tight to Louis and thinks that everything in his life up until this point has been worth it to get him right here.

It doesn't make sense that he only met Louis months ago. It feels like this love has been growing for an eternity. It feels like he's been waiting his whole life for Louis.

Someday, he wants to marry him and adopt children with him and pets. He wants to grow old with him and still feel infinitely young with him.

He can make it through whatever happens in the next two months. And after that too. He can endure whatever comes their way in the future because he knows where he's headed.

Like a star planted in one spot in the sky, burning bright and steady, Louis will always be there, guiding Harry closer to him. Harry's constant star, now and tomorrow and forever.

"I can't wait for more time with you,” Harry says. “But I will. I'll wait as long as it takes, I promise."

“That’s all I need,” Louis assures him.

Harry stretches up to press a kiss to his mouth, lingering for a moment with their mouths hovering close. He turns and blinks to clear his damp eyes and he stares up at the endless sky. “Now where’s this star again?”

They would probably have to wait until they had a telescope to see it clearly. But it was enough that Harry knew it was there.

 

* * *

 

When NYU closes for Thanksgiving recess, Louis sends him a ticket to come home. Harry insists that he has enough saved to get himself there but Louis feels partially responsible for him coming at all. Because _finally_ , Harry is meeting his family.

By now, they all know well enough what Harry looks like from pictures on Instagram or Facebook. (Not the ones on Louis' phone because he hopes no one but Louis has seen those.) And Louis assures him that he’s quite the celebrity in the Tomlinson household. He’s after all not only the man who saved Louis' life, but also the one Louis has been committed to the longest. Five months is apparently a record.

Harry still worries what they will all think when they have him up close. Will Phoebe and Daisy be afraid to come near him? Will Doris and Ernest cry when he holds them? Harry would literally die.

"Not gonna happen," Louis says sleepily. "The girls are hard to scare. Believe me, I know."

Harry drums his fingers on his pillow. "What about the babies?"

Louis shakes his head. "Here's the thing, love. Babies cry about everything. If you hold them the wrong way. If you smell different from what they're used to. If your voice is unfamiliar. There's no getting around that."

"Yeah but maybe I should take my piercings out just in case?"

Louis looks at him steadily. “I think you should come just as you are. I love you. And so will they.”

*

He is quite literally attacked when he steps into the Tomlinson home. Jay drops two big kisses on either of his cheeks and hugs him close. “Good to see you again, babe,” she says.

The youngest girls go full koala and cling to him. They hover close all night, eyes glowing like Harry is made of glitter. Lottie and Fizzy sit on either side of him later on and ask about his tattoos and just _how in the world_ he managed to get Louis to pierce his ear.

They have dinner and bowls of double chocolate chip ice cream for dessert, and settle in front of the television for a movie. It’s similar to when Louis met his parents, except there are the twins who never stop talking to him for long.

On the couch in the basement, after everyone has gone to sleep, Louis asks, "wasn't so bad, was it?"

Harry shakes his head. "I love your family," he tells him honestly. "Now I know why you're so good."

Louis smiles warmly. "I'm glad you feel that way,” he says. “It’s important to me, you know— that you feel…at home here. Like you belong…with my family."

His gaze is full of something Harry doesn't know how to interpret and his words settle heavily between them.

"I do..." Harry says quietly, his gaze darting over Louis’s face. "And I hope you feel the same way with mine."

Louis sniffs haughtily. "Considering that I talk to your mum almost every day now. And that Gemma and I have been chatting nonstop via Twitter, I think that's pretty much guaranteed.”

"Someone's overconfident,” Harry says. “And I would sooner refer to you and Gemma on Twitter as bantering.”

“Whatever you say,” Louis says with a dismissing roll of his eyes.

Harry pinches his nipple through his thin black shirt. Louis flicks him in his dimple. Harry bites at his finger. Louis pushes him off the couch.

“Cruel.” Harry blows his hair away from his mouth and pushes it back. “I thought you wanted me to feel like part of your family. Not like a pet.”

“Hey now. Bruce is very much a part of our family,” Louis retorts. His cheeks crinkle when he grins. He reaches out to pull Harry back up onto the couch. And presses a kiss to his mouth. It starts off as a very sweet kiss.

And then Louis moves to the spot beneath his ear and tugs at the collar of Harry's shirt to expose more skin. He nips at his collarbones.

Harry makes a soft noise that he instantly regrets because it urges Louis to shift over top of him and rock his hips down a bit.

Harry groans. "We _can't_.”

Louis drops a kiss on the corner of his open mouth, moves to his jaw. "Why not?" he murmurs.

"We're in your mum's home. That's like- I don't know. It's poor taste."

In spite of himself, he props his leg up on Louis' waist and moves with him when he grinds down again.

"So you don't want the blowjob I was planning to give you?" Louis asks.

Harry blinks up at the ceiling, hoping his better judgment is floating around somewhere.

"God, you're awful,” he sighs.

Louis laughs and shuffles down his body. He tosses a throw pillow at his face. "Use that," he says. "Stay quiet."

Harry rolls his eyes because he doubts he will need help keeping his voice under control...

Louis must read his mind or something. He makes it a point to give it better than he ever has before. And so Harry has the best blow job of his life in Louis' childhood home, groaning into a throw pillow that his mum probably took great care in purchasing.

 

* * *

 

“Look what just came in the post,” Zayn hears Liam shout, and seconds later, he comes strolling into the room, waving a black notecard in his hand.

Zayn grumbles and pushes his face further into his pillow. He wishes so desperately that he could quit this asshole. Anyone who wakes him from perfectly good slumber doesn’t deserve his love. Not that he loves him or anything. But never mind that.

“Seriously, come on,” Liam pushes him over onto his back. He actually, physically dares to touch him.

Zayn peeks one eye open. “I might actually kill you.”

Liam holds the notecard out in front of his face in lieu of an apology. The _only_ thing that keeps him alive is the names Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, side by side in ornate gold lettering.

Both of Zayn’s eyes blink open. He shoots upright and snatches the card. Instantly, a smile grows. He will kill Liam later…

 

* * *

 

**_We’re getting married!_ **

**_Please join us on Saturday, June 18 th at Paul & Allie’s._ **

**_Consider this a formal warning:_ **

**_If we don’t see you there, we have ways of finding you._ **

**_All the love,_ **

**_Louis William Tomlinson & Harry Edward Styles_ **

**_P.S. Come as you are._ **

 

* * *

 

Gemma lifts her hands away from Harry’s hair, the last rose secured in his crown. She rests her hands on his shoulders and their gazes meet in the mirror ahead.

“Well then,” she begins. “I think you’re ready to get married.”

Harry exhales unsteadily, glancing at himself in the mirror. “Really? Because I think my heart is actually seeping through my ribcage.”

His mum steps closer, right beside Gemma. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“Do you think the eyeliner is too much?” Harry questions.

His mum shakes her head. “Harry. There are times I have looked at you and thought my son was turning into a raccoon. This isn't one of those times.”

Well then. He pouts at her.

“Lottie is a makeup artist. She wouldn’t make you look bad on your own wedding day,” Gemma adds. “Trust us. You look perfect.”

Harry wrings his hands in his lap and nibbles his bottom lip.

“You look like you’re going to be sick. Just relax,” his mum says, rubbing his shoulders. “Stop worrying yourself.”

There’s a knock at the door before Harry gets the chance to tell her that he’s forgotten how to relax. Jay opens the door slightly and pokes her head in.

“Hi.” She pauses when she sees Harry. Her smile grows. “You look lovely.”

“We’ve been trying to tell him,” Anne says exhaustedly. Jay steps closer to them between Anne and Gemma.

“Believe me, I know,” she says quietly to Anne. Harry looks at her through the mirror now too. Jay lifts a small envelope in her hand and waves. “Lou asked me to give you this. Read it before you leave.”

Harry takes it from her, turning the envelope in his hand. His name is written in Louis’ familiar cursive on the front.

“Should we give him a moment then?” Anne says to the others. If they nod, he doesn’t see. He’s already started to open the envelope. He hears their heels on the hardwood floor while he pulls the stationery paper into the open. He hears the door close while he unfolds it.

*

_Harry,_

_So, if all goes well, and you get this note on the day you’re supposed to, then it’s June 18 th and we’re getting married!_

_There’s the possibility that you found this note in my wallet where I’ve been keeping it. Or that I’ve managed to fuck things up with you and we’re not getting married at all. Which obviously would suck a lot. Because I’m sure I’ve never wanted anything more than to marry you._

_There used to be a time when I didn’t see the point in marriage at all. My career was in a good place. And I was enjoying life the way it was. And I don’t know if minutes before our wedding is a good time to tell you that. But falling in love with you changed everything. I don’t even know when it happened. I just know one day I woke up beside you when you were probably drooling or talking in your sleep like you do sometimes, and I knew I was going to marry you._

_Or maybe it was that moment I woke up in my hospital room to find you sitting there. That should have been it. I wish you could have seen yourself then. You were radiant. Best thing I’ve ever woken up to._

_Of every gift I’ve received in life, you are by far the greatest one. I’m a better person because of you. I enjoy life more because of you, even when you’re not around. Just the thought of you is enough. This is the sappiest piece of shit I’ve ever written. But it’s all so fucking true. That’s the most incredible thing. To say sappy shit and have it be real._

_I love you. I really, really love you. I LOVE YOU. Je taime. Te amo. If I knew any other languages, I would honest to God write them all out here. But I don’t. And maybe that’s for the best. Because you have an altar you need to get to…_

_The point of all this is that I know sometimes you get a little stage fright before a big show. And that this is probably your biggest one yet. But you’re going to do great. Just come up to the roof and I’ll be there waiting for you._

_With love,_

_Louis Tomlinson-Styles ;)_

_P.S. Doesn’t that sound sick?_

*

Harry takes the fire escape, followed close behind by Niall, his heart pounding in his chest, harder than it ever has before. When he steps onto the roof, he will see Louis. Only Louis. Because he knows when their eyes meet, the rest of the world will fade to black.

He can already hear the music playing on the rooftop. He can hear the honking of car horns on the street below. He keeps moving, step by step, until he’s there, charged by Louis’ words on the paper he now has tucked into his pocket.

Louis is meant to be taking the inside stairwell to the roof. And apparently, they’ve timed their departure perfectly. Because as soon as he steps onto the roof, the stairwell door is opening and Louis steps out too.

And for a minute they just stop. It seems like the music does too. Everything stops.

Illuminated by the glow of hundreds of fairy lights and millions of stars in the night sky, Louis stands frozen with a look of stupor that Harry imagines is reflected in his own face. He is wearing an identical flower crown, bright red roses tucked away in his brown wispy hair. His suit is crisp, all black just like Harry’s, bar their white bowties. He visibly exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the whole way up. Harry does the same.

And then Harry waves. Just a small wiggle of his fingers. But it gets Louis smiling wide and the tension, the nerves, deflate. Louis tilts his head towards the altar, as if to say, “Let’s go.”

Harry nods and turns, and they continue on their separate paths to meet before their guests and Paul, the owner of the pub, who turned out to be an ordained minister. Funny that.

They have a small number of guests in all. Because a rooftop wedding doesn’t allow for inviting every person they know. The people who _are_ in attendance make an odd assortment. With the exception of Nick and Cara, Harry’s friends—his fellow punks—hear the “come as you are” loud and clear. They wear black and plaid, with brightly colored hair, and _tattoos_. So many tattoos.

Harry isn’t really paying attention to anyone except for Louis though. They step up to the altar, Harry with Niall, Louis with Zayn.

“Hi,” they say at the same time.

Harry grins. “Hi,” he says again.

Louis takes him in. “You look gorgeous. Love the eyeliner.”

“Really? ‘Cause I kind of messed it up. After I read your letter. I loved your letter by the way. I love you,” Harry says, almost in one big breath. “And you look great. Love the flower crown.”

“Same to you,” Louis laughs quietly. “I love you too.”

Harry presses his lips together to control the magnitude of his smile. It obviously doesn’t work. “Nice suit.”

“Thanks. It’s Burberry,” Louis says haughtily.

Harry has to kiss him. He knows he’s meant to wait but this is his wedding and he’ll do what the fuck he wants. It’s just a quick one anyhow. But he hears a few giggles amongst their guests, especially after Paul clears his throat and asks, “Should we begin?”

Louis chuckles, lifting his brows and directing the question Harry’s way.

Harry nods. “Yes please.”

 

* * *

 

He wakes up one day in New Zealand to an email from Peter Stark, the Principal Conductor of the Symphony Orchestra at Cambridge University, several months after his interview in December.

He and Louis have kept their phones off for the majority of their honeymoon. Skiing and swimming and gorging themselves on fancy food requires all of their time, focus, and dedication. And the last thing Harry thinks to do is check his email. Especially not for an employment offer that wasn’t coming.

The months of joblessness prior to his wedding weren’t ideal but they turned out to be a blessing. He had time to be himself. To sleep in late. To fly to New York just to perform with Niall and Lou. To fly home and have dinner and a movie with his fiance. To discover that said fiance likes to be fucked against the kitchen counter and fucked fast (or slow depending on his mood.) That was Harry’s favorite.

He repainted their bedroom to a cool grayish blue. He organized their books, their records, and their DVDs. He planned their wedding, and prepared for their trip afterwards.

Even now while he’s away, he isn’t worried about his lack of employment. But Peter Stark has sent him an email and it changes everything.

“Louis,” he hisses. He shakes his shoulder and shakes it again a little harder a second time. “ _Louis_.”

“You’re joking,” is how Louis responds, his voice rough and hoarse. He’s only had about four hours of sleep so far, following a night of club-hopping and copious amounts of booze and wild, ridiculous sex all over their hotel room. Including the balcony, yes.

“I’m sorry,” Harry drops his voice to a quieter note. He settles into the mattress again, laying himself gently over Louis’ bare back. He kisses his tan shoulder and whispers, “I got the job.”

It seems Louis has already fallen back to sleep when he takes a while to answer. Harry frowns, poking him in the back of his neck. And then Louis turns over, maybe a little too quickly. He presses a hand to his forehead, eyes screwed shut with pain. “You got the job?” he mumbles.

Harry nods. “I got the job,” he says again.

Louis tugs him into his body and squeezes him tight. “That’s incredible, baby. I’m so proud of you.” He presses a kiss to his forehead, followed by another. “You know what this calls for, don’t you?”

“If you say a toast, I might actually throw up,” Harry warns him.

“If I see another drop of alcohol, so will I,” Louis says gravely. “No. I was thinking skydiving.”

“Sounds fun. One last time risking my life before permanent employment,” Harry says.

“That’s the idea,” Louis grins. “And _maybe_ a toast afterwards."

 

* * *

 

The dissolution of the Blessed Unrest is the next logical step. Sad as it is, he won't have the time to fly to New York to perform anymore. It doesn’t mean he’s giving up on singing altogether. He’s already played a few open mic nights in London. But moving forward with his career as a violinist is paramount.

So he plans a farewell show with Niall and Lou. They post the news all over social media for a few days leading up, which is why they shouldn’t be surprised by the turn out the night of. But they are.

Paul and Allie’s is brimming with people. He knows for sure they have to be breaking the fire code. It isn’t the biggest crowd they’ve played for. But it’s the biggest one to turn up just for them. His eyes sweep the crowd and land on Louis seated near the left of the stage. And Harry is so grateful he was able to come along. Louis grins and shoots him a thumbs-up. He’s wearing one of Harry’s flower crowns and eyeliner that he allowed Harry to apply. With his growing number of tattoos, he looks every bit the perfect punk.

Wearing his own rose crown, Harry smiles, his eyes returning to the rest of the audience. “Hello,” he says into the microphone, hand rising to wave. The people cheer for him. Whistles sound throughout the room. “Harry!” several yell.

“Thank you all for coming out. Those all the way in the back. And the ones standing outside. Folks in the balcony.” He waves as he calls them out. “And thank you Paul and Allie for allowing us to break the fire code.”

He receives a loud cheer for that one. Punks are lawbreakers by nature.

“Some of you don’t know this but this is actually the second big favor Paul and Allie have done for me in the past two months.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Just recently in June, Paul ministered at my wedding.”

The wail that goes up is a righteous one, so loud Niall plugs his ears with his forefingers.  Some people are cheering. Others are moaning their defeat. One girl looks like she’s starting to sob. Bless her.

“That’s right,” Harry laughs. He turns his left hand out toward the microphone, the spotlights catching on his silver band and the embedded turquoise. “I got _married_ …” He holds his hand out toward Louis. “To the beautiful man sitting there. Louis Tomlinson-Styles. Please stand for us, sir. Everyone wants to see you.”

Louis glares at him. He pops up for one moment to wave and then sits back down a second later, recrossing his legs.

“Every song tonight is for him,” Harry says, clutching his mic. He gets lost for just one second, looking at Louis. His gaze snaps back to the audience. “And all of you too, of course.”

“And me mum,” Niall chimes in. She’s also in the audience, very out of place at a punk show but everyone adores her anyway.

“Yes, the lovely Maura as well,” Harry says, hand out toward her. “Happy to have you, mum.”

She laughs and swats at them both from afar.

“Thank you all for being here,” Harry says again. “We’re going to go ahead and get started, I guess. Last show tonight. But this isn't a goodbye. It's see you in the future.”

He glances at Louis again, always feels surer about himself when he does. Louis smiles and tips his head encouragingly. Go on, he means. As he always does.

He turns and gives a nod to Niall. And the drumbeat starts up. With a furious stroke of his guitar, he begins.

It's probably his best show yet. Not because he gets all the words right to the songs. (He doesn't.) Not because he plays his hardest. (His fingers aren't bleeding, so that isn't true either.) It's the energy. It feels like a living thing in the room. He is charged by Louis first and foremost, charged by this audience, and his band mates, Lou lost to her drums, and Niall caught in his guitar.

He screams the songs and throws himself around the stage, completely out of control. He finds the sense enough to walk toward Louis, who’s gotten to his feet now, doing his usual fist-bumping shimmy. He stops right away when he sees Harry approaching him. Louis shakes his head in warning. Don’t you dare, he’s saying. Whatever.

“I'd marry you all over again,” he sings the words. “I'd do everything with you a hundred times over. Infinity times over.”

Louis grins, ducking his head. He deserves the attention. Harry wants it all on him. Even if Louis might kill him later. He clutches his guitar and hops down off the stage, putting himself right in front of his husband. His hand rises to his scruffy cheek and he smacks a kiss on him, leaning into his body so Louis is forced to lean back.

Louis breaks away first, laughing with rosy cheeks. He urges him back to the stage. With reluctance, Harry climbs back up. He rights his guitar and plays on, higher than ever.

They play well over the number of songs they’re meant to, not including the encore. Harry feels like he can’t stop. His hand aches from clutching his pick. His voice is beginning to grow hoarse. Niall is drenched in sweat. Lou’s hair is damp, clinging to her forehead and neck. Harry’s tattered white shirt is soaked through. He and Niall are shredding together, fingers aching from the devilish riffs they play. They never think to stop.

The encore is even wilder. They cover “Jukebox Hero” and everyone goes fucking wild. Everyone sings because they _have_ to. Harry occupies the stage right in front of Louis. He dances for him and sings to him. Louis rolls his eyes but he hasn’t stopped laughing or smiling. He eyes the edge of the stage each time Harry gets too close and then glares warnings at him.

It happens right at the bridge of the very last song.

His foot gets caught in a thick black AC cord and he feels the ground slip from beneath him. He grabs desperately, _stupidly,_ for the microphone stand, as if that might stop his free fall. The room is spinning. It only takes five seconds before he’s on the ground. Another three and he’s out cold.

 

* * *

 

Louis closes his MacBook, removes his glasses, and sets them aside. “Well, hello.”

He almost sounds smug. Harry groans and turns his head toward the open window. The skin on his forehead feels tight like it’s bound by a rubber band. He lifts his fingers to feel around. He’s had stitches before. He recognizes the raised notches of thread right away.

“I don’t get a hello in return?” Louis asks.

“This is all your fault,” Harry mumbles. His throat aches when he does. Louis has a cup of water already ready for him. He leans against the edge of Harry’s hospital bed as he takes several sips.

“How is this my fault?” His brows lift. He gathers the cup when Harry’s finished.

“You looked so beautiful,” Harry waves abstractly at his face. “You had me all excited, and feeling reckless.”

“I see,” Louis says, his lips twitching. “Makes perfect sense.”

Harry rolls his eyes. It makes his head throb so he resolves not to do it again. “I hardly even remember what happened.”

“Oh. Well, allow me to explain,” Louis begins. “When I say you ate shit, I mean…” He whistles.

Harry covers his face with his hands. “Oh my God…”

“At least you waited until the encore,” Louis says. Harry groans louder. Louis laughs and pulls his hand away from his face. “Honestly, love, it's exactly the way I would expect you to close a show. Truly unforgettable. Unscripted. It'll be in the history books for sure. The stitches are hot as fuck too.”

Harry has to laugh, begrudgingly, of course. “I’m mortified.”

“You shouldn’t be. It was epic. And when you pulled the power cord, you caused an electrical trip. The whole place went dark,” Louis says. “Like I said, epic.”

“You’re telling me I face planted and the whole time you sat there thinking how epic it was?” Harry questions.

Louis smiles softly. “No. _Actually_ … I tried to catch you.”

“Sorry?” Harry tilts his ear toward him.

Louis sighs and steps back to prop his foot atop the chair’s seat. He’s wearing a medical boot. “I tried to catch you,” he repeats. “It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Messed my ankle up a little. But I did stop you from landing on your shoulder.”

Harry snorts, clapping a hand over his mouth. He throws his head back against his pillow, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Louis takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “See? We’re _both_ idiots.”

“I love you so much,” Harry says, his eyes stinging with tears from laughing too hard. Louis wipes them away and touches his dimple, a soft caress with his thumb.

“I love you too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Thank you for saving me.” Harry leans his cheek into Louis’ touch.

“Any time.” Louis shrugs with a smirk.

“Lie here with me.” Harry pats the hospital bed beside him.

Louis has to shuffle around the other way, hobbling a little with his boot. It’s a minor struggle for him to get himself onto the bed. They laugh the entire time.

He settles in beside Harry. They turn toward each other, arms over each other’s waist, noses close.

“Guess what?” Harry says quietly. Louis’ eyelashes flutter upward, eyes on Harry. “We’re back where it started kind of.”

In the same hospital where Louis first laid eyes on him.

Louis nods, pulling him closer. His hand runs over Harry’s lower back slowly— like the memory unfurling in their heads. For Harry, it is bright. He doesn’t see the pain etched in Louis’ face or the trauma. In his memory, and right now, Louis is always bright. He thinks Louis feels the same.

Louis’ eyes find his again, and then he is smiling. Brighter than the sun and every star to ever exist. “I remember,” he says. “You were radiant.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having a hard time letting punk Harry go. But I think his and Louis' story is finished here... Cry with me, please?
> 
> Thanks again to FallingLikeThisZayniam for getting me started on punk Harry in the first place! Thank you also to Sarah for being incredible as always and tolerating my shit. You're a peach!
> 
> And thanks to all of you for reading! Your support is so appreciated. Much, much love to you! xx
> 
> [Tumblr](http://alienproof.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](http://twitter.com/stylinson_city)


End file.
